


Baby, Baby, Please Let Me Hold Him

by Burning_Up_A_Sun



Series: Adult Education [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe, Anal Sex, Babies, Complete, Fertility Issues, Greg is silly, Hand Jobs, Hot Sex, Jamms!Verse, Johnlock Roulette, M/M, Married Couple, Married Sex, Original Character(s), Original Children Characters - Freeform, Parentlock, Porn with Feelings, Pregnancy, Same-Sex Marriage, Sherlock and John should have a baby, Teasing, Trick or Treating, Tumblr: letswritesherlock, making a baby
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-24
Updated: 2015-06-18
Packaged: 2018-02-18 15:42:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 67,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2353736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Burning_Up_A_Sun/pseuds/Burning_Up_A_Sun
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes, someone else's new baby starts the biological time clock (that you didn't know you had) to ticking. (221b ficlet: 221 words and the last word starts with B)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Happy Birth Day

**Author's Note:**

> This is a preview for the Parentlock i'm going to write. it will be John and Sherlock, and it will be multi chapter. Set in my AU, the JAMMS!'Verse. I hope you'll subscribe and follow

“Happy Birthday, dear Liam Eoin, Happy Birthday to you!” Delivery nurses sang to the newest Hudson, Mama, and Daddy.

Honey, weary from the contractions, learning the baby was face up, contractions, turning him, contractions, then head, shoulders, knees and toes, didn’t care about the damn song. “I want to hold the baby.”

“In a sec, Hon, they’re…”

She raised her torso off the bed, grabbed Matthew by the tie he’d forgotten to remove and pulled him to her. 

“Not in a second. Fucking. Now.” She didn’t blink. She didn’t laugh. She strangled him with silk.

“My wife would like to hold our son now,” Matt squeaked.

Weighed, measured, tidied, Liam cuddled into her arms. Warm, beautiful, 6.8oz and 19”. She sighed at a job well done, closed her eyes, and placed him at her breast for his first meal. 

Matt mouthed “I’m sorry” to the staff. It was hard to see in the dimmed lights, but they knew. They’d done this before.

“I’ll apologize myself in a minute,” Honey said, the bone weary exhaustion overtaking the joy of her new son. “Please call Sherlock and John to tell the kids their new brother is beautiful. Ask if they’ll bring the kids by later.”

As Honey drifted off to sleep, she mumbled, “They’d be good parents. They should have a baby.”


	2. My Melancholy Baby

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A year later, at baby Liam Eoin's first birthday party, John and Sherlock are asked a question with the chance to change their life forever: Have y'all ever thought about having children?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is part of my JAMMS!'verse, and follows "You Teach Me, I'll Teach You" (a JohnLock AU). But you don't have to read it for this to make sense (but I surely hope you will and will leave me notes of love and devotion :)
> 
> Ten billion thanks to 221btls and doctorsdaughter who took their time to help me make it better. they kinda rock. All mistakes are mine. 
> 
> The Rolling Stones song is "Mother's Little Helper." yeah. I kinda love it.

****1 year later****

 

“Happy First Birthday, baby Liam Eoin, Happy Birthday to you!”

Liam’s mama and daddy, brother, two sisters and grandmother as well as family friends sang to their baby, all gathered around the dining room table covered in Spiderman birthday decorations and tiny confetti #1’s. His namesake uncles stood at his highchair holding a Spiderman cake, chocolate webs drawn across the top and the superhero cradling the chunky ‘1’ candle.

“If this baby is named after those men,” a dotty old great-aunt asked the woman standing next to her, in what she thought was a whisper, “Why is he Liam Eoin? That’s not their names!” Everyone turned and stared; some because they were embarrassed for her, and some because they’d wanted to ask the same question.

“Sherlock’s first name is William, so Liam because it’s short for William,” Honey explained patiently. “And although John in Gaelic is Sean, it is also Eoin. John and Sherlock are Liam’s godparents, too.” John beamed a smile, as proud as daddy Matthew’s.

“Spi! Spi!” Liam slapped his palms on the high chair tray and squealed when he saw the cake. “Spi!” He pulled on John’s trousers to make sure his Uncle knew it was Spiderman.

“C’mon Liam! You can do it. Blow out the candles!” Kiera encouraged him like a good big sister. The 5 year old showed her brother how to do it: taking air in, popping out her cheeks, and pushing the gale-force breath out and mistakenly blowing out the flames of the fat red candle. She burst into tears for ruining his entire birthday and looked around for someone to tell her how to undo the horror she had just perpetrated.

John scooted down to her teary eye level. Rubbing her back, he said, “Shhhh. It’s okay, baby. You did Liam a big favor because he doesn’t know how to blow. Plus, you did us all a big favor, because he would have just spit all over our cake!” He scrunched his face into a grimace and pretend shivered. “Yuckie!”

Kiera laughed, her face once again sunny, and John picked her up, resting her on his hip so she could see Mama cut the cake. The baby of honor received the first piece, the perfect size for one year old hands to grasp and mash. Before Honey cut the second piece, Liam wore chocolate cake on his chin, cheeks and eyebrows; on his shirt, the highchair tray, and those lucky enough to be right next to him.

Uncle Sherlock, who’d been delegated the job of photographer (which was fine by him; he hid behind the camera instead of socializing), captured every fling of chocolate. He made sure to zoom in when Liam dragged his finger through the icing and drew on the side of John’s white polo shirt, as he was sharing his own slice of cake with Kiera.

Long after the other guests left, after the chocolate cake crumbs had been ground into the carpet, and Honey had unsuccessfully attempted to vacuum the dining room rug, the Hudsons and the Holmes-Watsons collapsed onto deck chairs on the patio. The early October evening chill made the heat from the fire pit and the mugs of hot coffee welcome. The citronella candle’s flame flickered on the table behind them, mostly doing its job of keeping mosquitos away. The children were smart enough to stay inside with cable television and without the stinky citronella scent.

“Thanks for keeping Kiera occupied, John," Honey said, wiggling her bare toes closer to the heat. "She doesn't understand she's not as much help as she thinks she is.”

"You were great with her. You’d make a great dad," Matt said, looking at John and Sherlock. "Did y'all ever want kids?"

“Why do all parents assume other adults want children?” Sherlock asked genuinely and without irritation, looking around the fire pit for an answer. Honey and Matt looked away from him, at their fingers, feet, at the pool. Granma Cath stared at them, waiting for her son and daughter in law to answer.

“Matthew, I raised you better than to ask questions like that,” Emma scolded her son. “And Sherlock, it’s a biological imperative. To keep the species going. Like the biological time clock that starts ticking for many women in their 30s.” She’d known Sherlock long enough, first as his coworker at the middle school and then as his landlady, to know that he would best understand an explanation that wasn’t steeped in emotion and feelings.

Sherlock waved his hand, dismissing both Emma’s fuss at her son and at him. Honey patted his leg, letting him know everything was fine.

John stared into his mug, stirring the lukewarm coffee with his finger. "Yeah, I had. Before Sherlock, I was engaged to a woman I met in grad school. Mary and I had discussed it. I wanted 4 or 5. She thought maybe one. We compromised on two.” John took Sherlock’s hand and squeezed it, an intimate gesture to let Sherlock know John loved him. And he did, well and truly, but John sounded wistful as he said, “I grew up just me and my sister, and I’d been around big families like yours. They always seemed to have so much fun and be happy."

"Have _you two_ ever considered it?" Matt asked, not sure if it were a socially appropriate question. Sherlock waited for John to answer, watching him. Even after two years, he couldn’t always read John as well as he could other people.

Instead, John dodged the question. "Sherlock says carrying a baby will ruin his figure." He laughed but the smile seemed melancholy rather than fun.

"It is not something we have ever discussed," Sherlock answered Matthew’s question. His tone indicated they should drop the subject. Without foreknowledge of John’s desires, Sherlock wouldn’t begin to speak for them.

"Mama, what's for dinner?" Sean poked his head out the door to the patio, interrupting the conversation.

"Good lord son, we just ate," Matt said, standing up.

"Sean. You're almost 14. Find something to eat." Honey took Matt’s arm, holding him back so he wouldn't help his son. He sat back down when Sean closed the patio door, heading off in search of food.

"It's hard to know how much is too much parenting," Honey sighed. "I don't want them to fail but at the same time, but I don’t want to keep stepping in to save the day. Like, could he make his own dinner? I want them to learn on their own, but do they have to fail to accomplish that? When do you step in?"

“Honey, you two are doing great. Trust me. I see kids every day at school who couldn’t think their way out of a closed room. Trust your instincts,” Emma said, the wisdom of a woman whose son was in his 30s.

“I think Matthew and Honey have done an exceptional job.” Sherlock cradled his coffee mug closer to his chest. The conversation about children and realizing that he and John had never even broached the topic left him as chilled as the October evening had.

John yawned and scraped back his wrought iron chair as he stood up. “I’m about done for tonight. Even the coffee isn’t helping.” He kissed Honey on the cheek, “Good night, mama. You throw a great party.” He didn’t let her stand up.

Sherlock leaned over to hug Honey in the chair. “You really do make wonderful babies. Thank you for letting me be part of your family,” he whispered to her.

Moved by his uncharacteristic emotion, she hugged him tighter, her eyelashes kissing his cheek. “Thank you for letting us.”

They hugged Emma and said goodbye one final time, before Matt walked them to the front door.

“I’ll let Honey think I’m being a good host,” Matt grinned, holding the door open for John and Sherlock. “Mostly, I want to make sure Sean doesn’t burn the house down when he makes himself dinner. But don’t tell Honey I’m doing it. I’d never live it down.” He sounded guilty, concerned, and embarrassed all at once.

During the short ride home, John flipped through the stations on the Jaguar’s XM radio, settling on the Rolling Stones hour on the 60’s station.

 

_**What a drag it is getting old** _  
_**“Kids are different today,”** _  
_**I hear ev’ry mother say.** _  
_**Mother needs something today to calm her down** _

 

Sherlock laughed as John’s sweet baritone sang along. “Some days, I think Honey could use one of those mother’s helpers.” He looked to John to see if he’d gotten a smile out of him. A small one. “How old are their children?”

John sifted through what he knew. “Sean is 14. Siobhan is almost 13. Kiera is 5. And of course, Liam is 1.” He chuckled. “Kiera must have been quite a surprise for them.”

“I’m quite certain Matt and Honey knew what to expect,” Sherlock raised an eyebrow, concerned about John’s lack of knowledge of achieving pregnancy.

John rolled his eye at Sherlock. He could be so frustratingly obtuse. “I know they know where babies come from, you idiot. I meant, most people don’t wait 8 years between children.” He struggled to find the right words, to explain what he felt. “It seems like you get to a point where your kids can do for themselves, and then you start all over again. Midnight feedings, changing dirty diapers, being on someone else’s schedule.” He looked away from Sherlock, out the side window as they pulled into the driveway of their home.

Sherlock parked the Jag in the garage, turned off the Rolling Stones, and listened to John, trying to read him, to see what was under the surface. John was—off—tonight. He wasn’t himself, and Sherlock knew two things from experience. First, when John was like this, it was something emotional. Second, no matter how hard he tried to figure it out, he’d never come close until John finally told him.

Sherlock watched John tap tap tap tap his fingers on the car door as his hand rested there. Watched him pinch his eyebrows together. Watched him worry his lower lip with his teeth he chose his words. These were the times Sherlock wished he knew more about people, not just what they did and why they did it, but what they were feeling. He did the one thing he knew would be okay.

“Let’s have a cup of tea and watch a Harry Potter movie,” Sherlock suggested, wrapping his hand in John’s as they walked into the house. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw John smile.

Sherlock loved the way the house smelled when he first walked in. He always breathed in and savored it, holding on to the scent as long as he could. Cinnamon tea. John’s after shave. His own citrusy shampoo. Some days, he even fancied he could smell the two of them, their sweat and need and their gorgeous coupling.

He never told John that. He was afraid John might think it was adorable. It wasn’t adorable. It was Sherlock’s essence, his spirit. His John.

“Do you mind if we don’t tonight, baby?” John asked rolling his neck and shoulders, and Sherlock heard the exhaustion in his voice. “I know it’s only 10, but I’m just going to go to bed. Those kids wear me out.” John slipped off his sandals and carried them to the bedroom, tucking them under his side of the bed.

“Would you like to be alone?" Sherlock asked at the door of the bedroom, watching John shed his polo shirt and shorts, slipping between the sheets wearing only his boxer-briefs.

The melancholia came less frequently than before, but it still worried Sherlock. John would withdraw, not speaking--not even when Sherlock was absurd for the purpose of eliciting a response. John would stare at the computer screen, seeing nothing. Texts and calls went unanswered. Sherlock didn’t mind that. That made sense. What disturbed him profoundly was when John would stop singing.

When Sherlock's mood turned, he picked up his violin and played, beautiful melodies or ugly sawing. Sometimes he’d play all night until it was time for John's alarm in the morning. But when John’s mood turned, the Music stopped. Their home that was filled day and evening with mindless whistling, singing along with the radio or iTunes, practicing a new piece for the Gay Men's Choir that John directed—it all stopped. For Sherlock, the joy and love in the music made Sherlock's house their home. Without the music, it was too much like the Before time. Before he knew John. Before he knew love and what it meant to be happy.

John smiled at Sherlock, standing in the doorway waiting for an invitation, as if it weren’t his bed also. “No, I don’t really want to be alone,” he said, pleased that Sherlock wanted to be with him. “Join me.”

His eyes followed Sherlock as he removed each item of clothing with care, taking time to crease and hang the trousers, arrange the suit jacket so it wouldn’t wrinkle. Folding the long-sleeved cotton shirt before dropping it into the hamper. John watched enthralled as each piece stripped off his husband’s lithe body, revealing his milky skin unaffected by the years of living in the sun, the muscles in his abdomen, his shoulders, his ass under the ridiculous silk boxer shorts he wore.

“You are so beautiful,” John whispered as he rolled over to face Sherlock, who’d pulled the sheets back to climb into the bed. John trailed his hand down Sherlock’s bare chest, following the lines of his muscles around his hip bone to his full bottom. “Mine.”

Sherlock closed the gap between them, tracing John’s face with his fingers before he kissed the corner of John’s mouth. “All yours.”

John pressed himself against Sherlock, kissing the words from his mouth, slipping his hand to the back of Sherlock’s neck, kissing, pushing his body closer, closer. He wrapped his ankle around Sherlock’s to draw him in and wove his fingers with Sherlock’s, looking into those hypnotic eyes. “I can’t get close enough to you,” he said, breathlessly.

Sherlock nodded. “Yes,” he whispered, kissing John’s fingers, nuzzling his neck, feeling his pulse with his lips. Nipping his ear, the line of his jaw.

“God, I need you.” John closed his eyes. This man. This impossible man. This gorgeous, amazing man. Was his. His friend. His love. His life. He was so lucky. So blessed. So needy. He crushed his mouth against Sherlock’s. He kissed him with his entire body, moving, pulling, caressing.

Sherlock bucked his hips against John, finding the friction he wanted. Not enough. More. _More_. He rolled toward his bedside table; the lube hadn’t made it back into the drawer the night before. He squeezed out a dollop into his palm and stroked John’s cock with long, tight pulls.

“Don’t stop that. Don’t you dare,” John moaned, thrusting into Sherlock’s grip. Yes. Good. So very good. Sherlock did stop, and John whined like a child, missing that heat and pull.

“Fuck me,” Sherlock said, dragging his fingers through lube that had pooled on John’s belly. He fell onto his back and reached to his opening, teasing it with his wet fingers. Sherlock breathed hard at his own torture; his fingers were too thin. They’d never be enough, never be what he wanted. He needed John.

John kissed the length of Sherlock’s leg--ankle, knee, the muscular inner thigh, as he draped it over his shoulder to position himself. His cock throbbed, thick and ready, as he drew closer to Sherlock’s entrance and pushed inside. The heat, the press. He slid out and fucked back in, long slow glides until he found the right angle.

Sherlock babbled as John’s cock stroked his prostate with each thrust. Couldn’t think. Feel. Just feel. His breath. He forgot how to breathe. He moaned a half warning and he tightened around John as his orgasm rose up hot and intense and he came between their bodies. John, lost in Sherlock, stuttered as he thrust and finally surrendered control, coming deep inside. His knees gave way, and he dropped his weight on top of Sherlock, the sweat-slicked bodies cooling slowly. John pulled out slowly and rolled onto the mattress, already missing the connection.

Sherlock’s thought process returned slowly. He remembered how to breathe and melted into John, his face snuffling into John’s neck, sweaty from the exertion of making love. John brushed a kiss across Sherlock’s hair and pulled him in closer. “I love you so much,” John whispered into the curls.

Sherlock’s heart skipped each time John said that. Even after their two years. He purred in response, kissing John’s neck.

“Have you ever thought about having children?” John asked, his cheek still resting on Sherlock’s head. Sherlock rolled to his back and pulled the blanket up to his chest. John didn’t pressure him for a response. He waited patiently, his breathing becoming deeper and more regular, the blinks longer.

Sherlock’s rasped voice broke John’s light slumber. “I never thought I would find anyone who would be able to live with me, let alone want to. Until you.”

John’s heart dropped. Sherlock spoke matter of factly and that broke John’s heart a little more. Tears welled in his eyes at his husband’s simple statement.

“So no, I never gave thought to a family because I never expected to have one.”

John moved to Sherlock and held him, trying not to allow the tears to slip out. “I love you, and we are a family, children or no children.”

“What—what if we had a child and it was like me?” Sherlock asked, his voice tiny and insecure in a way that John had never heard before.

John sat upright and cradled Sherlock’s face in his hands, dotting it with kisses. “My love. If we had a child and he or she were just like you, that would be incredible.”

Sherlock looked away, his voice cracking as he spoke. How could John not see him for who he was? “Selfish. Self-absorbed. Demanding. Rude.”

John slipped two fingers under Sherlock’s chin to bring it back to him. “First, I think you are the single most amazing person in the world and you’re none of those things you said. Second, you just described a child. Third, it would be our child. We would raise him or her how we wanted. Not the way your parents did or my parents did or how Honey and Matt do.”

Sherlock closed his eyes and nodded. Yes. But he was those things. And babies were helpless little people who relied on adults for everything. Could he deal with that day in and day out? But, what if John were right? And they raised a child their way. He could read. Research. Culling best facets from the parenting philosophies that existed and putting them into practice. He could teach John how to follow his lead.

“I always thought I’d be a dad,” John said, kissing Sherlock one final time before rolling over to face the wall. Sherlock curled up behind him, sharing his pillow, John’s hair tickling his nose. “But I wouldn’t trade you and us for anything.”

Sherlock’s heart flipped, and he smiled into John’s neck.

“I feel you smiling,” John said, his voice thick with sleep. “Why’s that?”

Sherlock sighed with happiness. This was what John wanted, what would make him happy. “Because I love you.”

John’s breathing evened out, and he released his grasp on Sherlock’s hands that were around his waist. Sherlock slipped out of the bed, careful not to wake John, and padded out of the room.

When he returned, he had a bottle of cold water and his laptop. He tapped the space bar to awaken the computer so he could begin his research.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Rolling Stones; Mother's Little Helper : https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=13olfeD026g
> 
> The title of the chapter comes from "My Melancholy Baby", sung by many people, but notably, a young Frank Sinatra


	3. Baby--I'm-A Want You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John Watson always thought he'd be a daddy one day, but would Sherlock be an okay father? And would they even want to trade their quiet life for the noise of a child or even (gulp) children?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So many thanks to doctorsdaughter and 221btls who are awesome betas. Blame them for the length of the chapter. Someone said, it needs more heart to offset the facts. and thus another 1200 words were born. :P (also the reason it wasn't ready on Sunday. lol)
> 
> I have tried to explain the four choices to the best of my research, understanding and ability. All errors are mine, and I sincerely apologize. 
> 
> Boy or Girl? What do YOU think?

John cracked his eyelid open to find two red blobs. On two plates. Under his nose. Actually, he thought (as he tried to focus his barely-awake eyes), it could be just one blob. On one plate. He yawned and rubbed at the gritty sleep scratching his eyes.

"Good. You're finally awake," Sherlock said, removing the plate of warm toast and gooey raspberry jam from John’s face and pushing it onto the bedside table, forcing John’s sheet music out of the way. In the process, the music swiped into the toast, leaving raspberry streaks over the notes. "You almost slept the entire day," Sherlock said as he sank down onto the mattress.

"What time is it?" John asked, sitting up while rubbing the remaining sleep from his eyes. “Did you sleep at all?"

Sherlock waved his hand to dismiss the question. "It's 10:00am. I was researching." Sherlock sat against the headboard with his laptop opened to an elaborate spreadsheet.

“Why did you make me breakfast. You never make me breakfast,” John eyed the plate of toast and jam suspiciously. He sniffed at it, smelling for almonds which would signify arsenic. Smelled like raspberries. But it wouldn’t be the first time Sherlock tried to prove a historical deduction by trying it out on John. Sherlock’s PhD in History was gonna kill John—if it didn’t literally kill him first.

“You are the one who says you cannot think on an empty stomach. I listened to you, and now you think I am poisoning you.” Sherlock sounded affronted. Offended. John knew him better than that.

“What do I need to think about, Sherlock?” The tea on John’s nightstand was hot and black with sugar. Just as he liked it. Oh, God. It would be the tea, not the jam.

“Not the tea either, John,” Sherlock said without glancing over. “Would you like to have a baby?” He stopped typing long enough to watch John.

Mouth full of toast with a splotch of red on his chin, John answered, “You’re not confused enough to think that’s a possibility, Sherlock, no matter how many hours it’s been since you slept.”

“I won’t dignify that with a response, and if you do not wish to have a serious discussion, then we can let it drop.” Sherlock resumed typing, his mouth set and eyes definitely not on John.

“You’re serious,” John said. Sherlock’s manner finally registered. He slid the plate back onto the table and wiped his sticky fingers on the napkin. “Ok. Yeah. Let’s talk.” He turned to Sherlock and sat cross-legged in the bed.

Sherlock moved the computer from his lap and mirrored John’s position. “Last night you said you wanted children—wanted to start a family. What brought you to this?”  
“I don’t know. Maybe it’s that ‘biological imperative’ that Emma was talking about yesterday. Whenever I thought about kids, I thought of watching my son play soccer. Graduating from college. You know. The fun stuff. Like, it was a lark. But Honey is the first new mom I’ve really known. Yesterday at Liam’s party, Honey looked exhausted and worried about the ear infections he keeps getting, but she also looked…radiant. And then I held the baby, and he smelled warm and clean, like powder and baby sweat and unconditional love and pure acceptance.”

“I love you unconditionally, and you don’t say nice things about me,” Sherlock sniffed in disdain as he bought the computer back to his lap.

John nuzzled Sherlock’s neck. “You smell warm and clean, like sweat and love and sex. Especially sex.”

“Not now John, this is serious,” Sherlock ignored John’s motives. “A baby is a logical, rational decision, not something decided in the heat of the moment.”

John laughed, his eyes shining at Sherlock’s intensity. “Oh sugar, many many babies are decided in the heat of the moment. And there is nothing logical or rational about having children. It’s emotional.”

Sherlock frowned at John’s explanation.

“Don’t frown at me,” John took Sherlock’s hand from the keyboard and angled his head to look into Sherlock’s face. I know what you’re thinking. You show the world that you’re this logical. rational person, but I know you. I’ve seen you at your most raw. Your most vulnerable. Your fundamental self.”

He brushed a kiss across Sherlock’s mouth and tucked back in for another. Longer, deeper. Touching John’s heart and happiness. He drew back and cradled Sherlock’s face in his hands. “You would be a fantastic dad.”

Sherlock blinked rapidly and cleared his throat.

“Okay. Um. So, uh,” Sherlock stuttered, at a loss for words. How did John do this to him? Set him off guard.

John smiled and kissed Sherlock again before going into the bathroom. Sherlock touched his lips, still feeling John there.

“What did you research?” John called through the closed bathroom door.

“There are 4 logical ways we could have a child, setting aside any Baskerville Project that Mycroft may be involved in. How he manages to keep himself so plugged in to British Intelligence service when he is a lawyer in Florida, I have no idea.” Sherlock raised an eyebrow as he browsed the computer screen.  
“Four ways. What are they?” John stood in the bathroom doorway in his underpants, trying to brush his teeth and speak at the same time without dribbling toothpaste foam down his chin.

“I have created a spread sheet with the relevant information. I’ve ordered them from the most invasive to the least,” Sherlock said, tapping keys on his computer to maximize the spread sheet while John rinsed his mouth.

John stopped on his way to the bureau for clothes. He turned to Sherlock, frowning.

“Invasive? They’re children Sherlock, not termites.” He grabbed exercise shorts and a t-shirt.

“Of course they’re not vermin, John,” Sherlock explained patiently. John was missing the point again, as he so often did. “If you prefer, I will say I have ordered them by the amount that he or she would impact our lives.”

“Seriously, Sherlock,” John slammed the bureau drawer shut in frustration. “What the actual fuck are you talking about? All children impact parents’ lives. You can’t give them back.”

“Actually, my research showed that in certain circumstances—“

John held up his palm to Sherlock’s confused face, his voice short and words carefully chosen. “We are not having this conversation. We are never having this conversation until you can figure out what you did wrong.”

Sherlock watched John lace up his sneakers, his face blank. He’d messed up. He’d said something wrong. He’d have to replay the conversation and look for clues.

“I’m going out for a walk. I’ve got my phone.” John closed the front door forcefully, mumbling something about babies and idiots and possibly, no hope for the future.

Sherlock closed the computer and brought it to the living room. But he left it closed, choosing instead to lie on the couch, fingers steepled. He replayed the conversation from his perspective. From John’s. From different angles in the room. He watched John’s expression as it changed.

Then he nodded. Found a ream of printer paper, markers and push pins and went to work.

John returned an hour later, sweat drenched from the hot mid-day sun. “I swear, I’ve lived in Florida 8 years and I’m still not used to how hot it is in October.” He looked at the living room wall, Sherlock’s scratchy handwriting scrawled over papers pinned into 4 columns.

“What’s all this?” John asked, squinting and trying to read the chicken scratch. He kept his voice light, hopeful.

Sherlock swallowed hard and tried to find the right words. “I took your advice and rethought my statements and realized my error. I re-evaluated my research based on my feelings, not on pure logic.”

He looked to John for his approval, that yes, he had found the right mistake. John nodded and offered a small smile. “I—I realized that if I spoke in terms of logic, I could remain emotionally unattached.” Sherlock wrung his hands, watching them instead of John. “Because if I thought about it emotionally, I panicked. A child scares me John because it’s even bigger than the commitment I made to you. We’re adults. We can make our own decisions, but that little life would be completely dependent on us. What if I fuck up?”

John crushed his lips against Sherlock’s. “I love you. I love you. What am I gonna do with you? A baby scares everyone. But if we’re together, we can do it.”

Sherlock felt his shoulder muscles loosen as he leaned into John’s embrace. The habits of a lifetime—hiding his feelings, being afraid of caring too much, worrying that he would be left alone—weren’t easily broken. But John loved him and would help him grow. As would a child.

“I should go shower,” John said, his voice husky. “You could join me.” He held out his hand, and Sherlock, already showered and dressed, slipped his hand into John’s and followed.

\---

Dried, dressed, and in a much better mood, John looked at the columns of papers tacked to the wall. At its best, Sherlock’s handwriting was difficult to decipher. Based on these scribbles, John guessed that Sherlock had put the papers on the wall first and then dashed off his thoughts as they came to him.

John stared at the lists, tilting his head first to the left, then to the right. Fuck it, he couldn’t figure this out.

“Why don’t you just take me through the options,” John suggested. “I’d much rather hear you.”

Sherlock came up next to him and swept his hand across the wall. “The four options are foster parenting, adoption, a surrogate mother, and a surrogate carrier. I’ve listed benefits and drawbacks for each as well as any associated costs.”

It took the better part of a half hour for Sherlock to cover the four options. A few minutes in to the deluge of information, John stopped Sherlock to look for a notepad and pen. Vaguely panicked with a headache nipping around the edges, he needed to take some control of the information. Notes would be the easiest way.

When Sherlock finished, he sat across from John and waited, leaning forward, his eyes bright as he watched John. “Which one?” he asked, assuming that John had already decided.

John swallowed hard and released a long, slow breath. “That’s a damn lot of information, Sherlock. Give me a few minutes to process it.” He looked down at his notes and then moved closer to the lists on the wall.

He pointed to Foster Parenting. “With this one, you said that ‘permanent’ fostering is generally not considered the best option by social services. I think I would want to be in parenting for the long term.”

Sherlock popped off the couch and tore the paper from its push pin. “Agreed.”

“Ok, yeah, good.” John looked back down to his notes. “Adoption is two options in one, right? Local versus international.” Sherlock nodded, rereading the notes on the wall.

“They cost about the same, upwards of $50,000.” Sherlock answered.

John gulped. That was more than his salary as Music Director for the Orlando Gay Choir. No way that he even had anything close to that saved. He breathed evenly, trying to calm himself.

“About the international adoptions—it seems like an infant is out of the question, because they don’t even begin the process until a child is at least six months. Plus I am assuming that getting full genetic and family histories would be almost impossible.”

Sherlock nodded at John’s statement. Bolstered by Sherlock’s support, John said, “Would I be horrible if I said I couldn’t do that? I couldn’t go into an adoption blind, without knowing every detail?”

“No. This is a decision that we will live with for the rest of our lives. After a child comes, we are at its mercy. We should make the selfish decisions now. I believe I would prefer an infant whose history I knew.” Sherlock reached for the International Adoption sheet, awaiting John’s approval to tear it down. A nod, and it was gone.

“Tea. I need tea. Or a Coke. Possibly a Jack Daniels.” John rummaged through the refrigerator and the kitchen cabinets. “Dammit! All we have is apple juice,” John said as he brought two whiskey tumblers, ice, and the gallon of juice. “And why do we even have juice?”

“Some nights I watch Liam and Kiera when you’re working. We have tea parties, if you must know,” Sherlock sniffed as haughtily as he could.

John pictured Sherlock’s long legs drawn up to his chest as he sat on the floor at the coffee table, drinking watery apple juice and discussing the love life of Kiera’s panda bear, inventively named Panda Bear.

John splashed the amber liquid over the ice and swigged. “Ahhh,” he said, smacking his lips. “That’s the stuff.”

“Not even remotely,” Sherlock laughed, relaxing against the couch cushions, his legged crossed at the knee. He tugged at the cuff of his suit pants, straightening them.

That suit was new, John realized. Navy instead of the usual charcoal. The amount of money that man spent on clothes—John shook his head and sighed.

_Sherlock’s clothing allowance fueled more than one nuclear meltdown their first few months of marriage, especially since Sherlock had left his job to become a full-time Doctoral student at the University. After the third time in their first six months of marriage that John found his debit card declined at the grocery store for insufficient funds, he sat Sherlock down in front of the online banking system. Sherlock tried to wave off the problem, but he saw John’s left fist open and close. Open and close. Not adept at reading emotional clues, Sherlock was extremely good at identifying physical tells. And the flexing fist meant John was close to exploding._

_“If it were a problem, John,” Sherlock had answered, sighing heavily. “You just had to say something. I’ll pay for my clothes from my trust fund.”_

_“Trust. Fund?” John’s mouth had fallen open, looking incredulously at Sherlock. “You have a fucking trust fund? And you never thought to mention it?!” Oh, we may not even make it to seven months, John thought, images of weapons of mass destruction scrolling through his mind._

_“I told you about it.” Sherlock had said. “The night I made Osso Buco, I explained it to you. My grandmother left well-managed trusts for us. It has appreciated considerably over the years. Did you never wonder about the Jaguar?”_

_The veins in John’s neck throbbed. In tight, measured words he said, “First. You have never. Ever. Made me Osso Buco. I don’t even know what that is. Second. You never told me about your trust fund. It was either a different boyfriend or one of those times you didn’t notice I was gone.”_

_Sherlock’s crinkled brow and tilted head told John the answer. “You’re too much, Sherlock. Buy your damn clothes from your trust fund and leave the bill money alone!”_

“…think, John?” Sherlock leaned forward, expecting an answer.

“Uh, um, tell me again the difference between a surrogate mother and a surrogate carrier?”

“The basic difference is the ovum,” Sherlock explained, draining his apple juice and plonking the Waterford tumbler onto the coffee table. “A surrogate mother uses her own egg. A surrogate carrier is a receptacle. Her body receives the fertilized embryo and with all luck, carries it through delivery.”

John digested the information, running through the benefits and drawbacks. “The difference is in the egg…It seems—dicey—that the surrogate is related to the child.”

“Most of the processes require lawyers for both parties,” Sherlock agreed impartially but tried to read John’s face for answers, preferences, feelings. He watched John approach the lists and re-digest the plusses and minuses for each. Pace. Stop. Read. Pace. Stop. Read.

John disappeared into bedroom. Sherlock heard the snick of the bathroom door closing and knew that was John’s favorite spot for undisturbed thinking. Sherlock used the time to reorder the pages on the wall as well as his own thoughts. By the time John reappeared, trailing the scent of cucumber-melon hand soap, Sherlock had decided what his choice would be.

“I know you,” John said, walking up behind his husband and winding his arms around the muscled stomach. He pressed his cheek against Sherlock’s shoulder blade and hugged him. “While I was gone you determined the most logical choice.” Sherlock’s neck muscles moved against John’s cheek as he nodded.

“Tell me what you—feel,” Sherlock said, unclasping John’s hands from his belly and guiding him to the couch. “I think this is one of those times when you would say _feeling_ is more important than _thinking_.”

Sherlock waited patiently, hands steepled at his lips, as John stared at the floor. Watched him breathe, stroke his chin, even re-tie his sneakers.

“It seems—too important to even try to decide,” John sighed and turned to Sherlock, nestling under his shoulder. “For me, I think…I think I would want our baby to be ours, genetically and permanently, with no one else having any claim. From what you said, I would think a Surrogate Carrier would be our best choice. Half the DNA would be ours and the egg donor wouldn’t even know who we are.”

“And we wouldn’t know who she is, beyond her most fundamental traits.” Sherlock brushed his lips over John’s hair and held him tighter. “I agree with you. I would like a little Johnlock in our lives.”

John pulled back and looked confused. “Johnlock? What the hell is that?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, saddened by John’s lack of cultural knowledge. “It’s a couples’ name, John. The students at the University use it as shorthand to identify people in a relationship. Brangelina is…”

John didn’t know whether to laugh or skip the entire baby process. “I know who Brangelina is. I’m shocked you do. But I am not naming our son Johnlock because--.”

Sherlock shut him up in the best possible way. The kiss, sweet and unhurried, soothed John’s soul. He could think again and remembered why he wanted to have a child with this ridiculous, stroppy, delicious, amazing man.

For the remainder of that day and the rest of the week, Sherlock and John talked about children and families and their future. Sometimes it was a direct conversation, like when they discussed turning John’s old bedroom into a nursery (“No, Sherlock, we are not turning the Master Bedroom into a nursery so the dirty diapers can be closer to a toilet. Do you even know what an infant’s dirty diapers look like?!”), what color they would paint it (‘Sherlock! We are not painting it black and white, even if that is what the baby will see best for months.”), or even education (“I know the baby will possibly have your DNA, but that doesn’t mean it will be a genius. I am not agreeing to allow you to home-school til I meet the kid, so stop asking!”).

Sometimes, it was woven through their daily lives, sweeter and gentler. Mentioning Grandmother and Grandfather visiting for Christmas. Moving more slowly past the baby clothes in the store, laughing at the sayings on the onesies. Choosing giraffes over puppies. She over He.

The most important conversation was the one John didn't want to have: with Sherlock in graduate school and with his salary as the choir's music director, they would never be able to afford any of these means to having a child.  The first time John saw the fees, his stomach dropped; deep breaths, slowly in and slowly out, saved him from running to the bathroom.  The fee per donor egg's cycle was $10,000. Add to that the fee to the suggogate carrier, which conservative estimates said would be $25-35,000. Then procedural fees for both, facility charges, good Lord, even a maternity clothes allowance. john closed his eyes, falling back against the couch. More deep breathing. It would take years to save this kind of money. He'd have to tell Sherlock; hopefully, he could keep his composure while explaining.

Each time John broached the subject of the baby, Sherlock's face lit up. He showed John color swatches for paint or a name he'd found online. John allowed him to change the subject; it gave him more time to think of a better way to break the bad news. Late one night, almost a week into their decision, they settled into bed with Sherlock curled up behind John. 

"Are you alright?" Sherlock asked. "You've been preoccupied the past few days."

John's body tensed. Sherlock stroked John's shoulder and arm, and kissed the back of John's head. Finally, John said, "We can't do this." His voice broke, but he tried to keep it even. "We can't afford the fees. We have some savings but it's a drop in the ocean compared to what we need." John buried his face in his pillow trying to hide the hiccups of sobs. "I'm sorry. I'm so so sorry. If only I'd--"

Sherlock hugged him tighter and whispered over and again, "Shhh it will be fine. Shhhh."  When John's breathing evened, Sherlock said, "I explained to you the other day that my trust fund would be entirely sufficient to cover all the costs. Don't you remember?" 

John laughed into the pillow. "Again, was I actually here when you explained that to me? Because you and I have never discussed how we would pay these fees."

"I can't keep track of every detail of your life, John," Sherlock kissed John's cheek gently. "But I'm sorry that you were worried, and i didn't realize why."

Thank you Grandmother Holmes, for the trust fund, John thought. And for our baby.

\----

“I think it will be hard to choose what our baby should call us,” John said one night, scanning yet another surrogates’ database. So far, neither he nor Sherlock had found one candidate they felt was acceptable.

“I called mine, Father,” Sherlock offered, with a half frown. He looked up from the computer and said, “I love my father, but—“ When Sherlock hesitated, John squeezed his hand. “It was always so formal. Father takes you to stockholders meetings, but Daddy rolls around in the dirt and eats mud pies.” Sherlock shook off the momentary sadness. “Well. Mud pies aren’t real food you know.”

John smiled and squeezed Sherlock’s hand once more before letting it go. “Then I think you should be Daddy.” Sherlock tried to hide his grin as he read his millionth egg donor profile.

John pretended not to notice the smile, but slid his foot out of his loafer and stroked the back of Sherlock’s calf with his toes. “I think I’d like to be called Poppy,” John said. “It sounds fun, and when the baby grows up, he or she can change it to Papa if they like.” His cheeks turned red, embarrassed that he’d given it so much thought.

“Poppy.” Sherlock tried the word. “Poppy. I like it.”

They laughed at themselves, planning names and futures before they had even taken their first step toward having a child. But this time, when they returned to their research the words Poppy and Daddy warmed their souls.

Warmed souls or not, by the end of the week, Sherlock and John’s nerves were frayed to their last fibers. Used to choosing and controlling their own futures, they had no choice but to wait. For return phone calls. For emails with passwords. For initial consultations.

Friday morning John stomped into the kitchen waving a toothbrush in one hand and an open toothpaste tube in the other, on fire because Sherlock hadn’t recapped it like John had asked him to do **Every. Day. for the Past. 700. Days**. Incensed, Sherlock launched into a tirade about the illogical arrangement of the items in the refrigerator. John informed his husband, without doubt or misunderstanding, exactly where he could shove the items from the refrigerator, in whatever arrangement he wanted. And slammed the front door as he left for work. Sherlock rearranged the refrigerator, yelling to the empty house about mayonnaise and mustard, railing about bread in the fruit drawer. But by the time Sherlock left for the university his indignation and anger were spent. He’d known yelling had nothing to do with condiments and everything to do with doctors, but that hadn’t stopped him from being an ass. Determined to make amends, he capped the toothpaste before he left.

Intending to continue his dissertation research on the _Rise and Fall of Florida Cowboy Culture in the late 1800s in Central and South Florida_ , Sherlock sat surrounded by fragile final editions of evening newspapers dating back over 100 years. They lay unopened on Sherlock’s favorite table hidden at the back of the university library. Instead, he scrolled through pictures on his laptop. Their wedding in Mummy’s backyard, with Mycroft and Greg before they were an ‘and’. Their honeymoon in Greece, with John beyond sunburned from falling asleep on the raft in the pool. Sherlock had stayed awake that night patting John down with tea-soaked towels and singing silly songs he made up about them.

He double-clicked the folder named _St. Augustine Thespians Trip 2014_ , taken when they’d both worked at the middle school. The Before time—before they were together, before they were in love. Even as he thought that, Sherlock knew he’d already loved John deeply, yet wouldn’t jeopardize their relationship by saying it since clearly John didn’t feel the same. He scrolled through pictures of them and the students around St. Augustine, on the trolley, at the restaurant. He stared at the last photo in the folder: the two them in the tacky tourist store, where Sherlock tried on ridiculous hats, and John reached out, laughing. He’d never seen this photo (maybe Honey had sent it to John). In the silence of the library Sherlock saw what he hadn’t seen at the time. John loved him then. It was there, on his face as he teased Sherlock, just as it had been last night when he cried out “iloveyouiloveyougodifuckingloveyou” as his orgasm crashed over him.

I love you too, John, Sherlock mouthed to his laptop.

New plan.

Sherlock packed up his computer, returned the brittle newspapers to the librarian and fleshed out his plan. He would text John to cancel rehearsal that night. He’d make them dinner, which they may or may not ever actually get to, and they would slowly, deliciously, remind themselves how much they were in love.

Once clear of the library’s quiet zone, Sherlock pulled out his phone, but before he could send his text to John, Honey called, her words tumbling out in a single breath. “Sherlock, I need a huge favor, and I know you’re busy with your dissertation, but could I please drop Liam and Kiera at your house tonight for an hour or so? Sean and Siobhan are in a presentation with chorus and band and drama and I would owe you big time, and—“

Sherlock cut her off so she could breathe before she passed out. “Text me the relevant details.” Since Honey had him on the phone, she explained the details. By the time she finished, he was already halfway home, his text to John forgotten by the mental lists he’d made for babysitting.

Having spent the day pointedly not staring at his phone and not calling Sherlock to apologize for losing his temper, John decided to surprise him by coming home early. Since he usually stayed til 10 on Fridays, Sherlock would never expect him at 6. Plus, he could be repentant much more effectively in person. His stomach aflutter, John quietly opened the door between the garage and the house and placed his backpack on the kitchen floor. He knew exactly what he would do to make it up to his husband, and it started on his knees.

“Would you like another cookie, Miss Uncle?” a little voice asked. “And perhaps another spot of tea?”

John grinned, listening to the banging of toddler hands against the coffee table, and Miss Uncle speaking over the noise. “Oh yes, dear,” the squeaky high voice said. “I would love another biscuit. Two if I may.”

She dug in crinkly plastic, presumably for cookies, and John tip toed to the doorway to peek at the tea party. Kiera had dressed Sherlock in a wide brimmed sun hat, colorful ribbons dangling from the brim, clearly a craft project gone wrong. Kiera’s feathery boa matched Sherlock’s hot pink ribbons. Liam bounced happily in his exersaucer, able to reach the table to bang, but more interested in spreading chewed Oreos on his shirt.

“What about your belly, Miss Uncle? Two cookies will make you fat! And then you’ll never get married!” Kiera giggled.

Miss Uncle’s voice stuttered for a moment, starting high but returning to its normal timbre. “Kiera, a girl is much more than her body, whether she’s tall or short or thin or—not thin. She is her mind and her laugh and her heart. Those are what are important.”

“Then are you gonna eat that extra cookie, Miss Uncle? Because my mind is still hungry,” she squealed, stealing the extra cookie off Sherlock’s plate. “And you need more tea. Your voice is funny for a lady.”

“I’m no lady. I’m a horse, pretending to be a lady!’ Sherlock whinnied to make her laugh louder, and when John stepped into the foyer, Kiera sat on Sherlock’s back as he crawled on all horsey-fours around the living room.

“Giddy Up, Cowboy,” John said, his voice low and gravelly, so in love with this man who would be an incredible Daddy. Wanting this man who would be an incredible Daddy. “How much longer will Honey and Matt be out?” There was no mistaking the need in John's voice.

“I am not sure,” Sherlock said, whispering to Kiera to wash her hands. He came to John and kissed him, heavy with promise and Oreos. And dangling pink ribbons. Sherlock pressed the hat onto John’s head and said, “You will be wearing this later.”

He found his phone (safely stored on top of the bookcase away from sticky fingers) and texted Matt. “

          _**Return ASAP. I am taking my husband to bed. Would prefer your children**_

_**not be here, but will resort to sugar and cartoons if necessary—SH** _

 

        _Do not dare sugar my kids up at 6 pm. We will be there within 15 minutes. Do. Not. Just. Don’t._

 

“Which don’t? The sugar and cartoons or…” John asked, his eyes looking at the growing curve in Sherlock’s trousers.

Later, naked and tangled in their bedsheets, Sherlock rested his head on John’s chest, listening to the lub dub of his heart.

“Sherlock,” John said, but hesitated. He waited for Sherlock to respond, twirling his fingers in Sherlock’s curls, but no response came. Biting the corner of his lip John said, “I have an idea.”

Sherlock listened to the words rumble in John’s chest. Too sated to deduce, Sherlock motioned for John to continue.

“What if we ask Honey to be our surrogate? She meets the criteria: She doesn’t drink, smoke or do drugs. She’s between 25 and 37. Well educated. She had live births, and she’s relatively sane, all things considered.” John listed the facts, wondering if Sherlock would agree.

Sherlock looked up at John, slack jawed. When he finally spoke, he asked, “What time is it?”

John rolled his eyes. “A little before 8. Should I even ask why?”

Sherlock was already out of bed grabbing his trousers from the chair where he’d placed them. “Put clothes on, John. Something impressive, not what you typically wear.”

With a shrug that said _I’m too used to this to even question it_ , John changed into a polo shirt and khaki pants. What he typically wore, which wouldn’t be impressive enough, but without more information, he was not breaking out his good suit. He wasn’t even sure it would still fit, since the last time he’d worn it was at their wedding over a year ago.

Sherlock eyed him critically, one eyebrow raised. “Don’t even start with me,” John warned. “Without more information, you get what you get.” He didn’t wait for an answer, gathering his keys and wallet.

“We’re going to the Hudsons,” Sherlock said, backing the Jag out of the garage. “Strike while the iron is hot, I have always said.”

John watched Sherlock as he drove. The tells were there: tapping his fingers on the steering wheel, pushing his hair off his face, even flipping through the radio stations.

John caught his hand the next time it touched the radio. “Baby, please don’t be nervous. If she says no, we’ll figure something out.” He held Sherlock’s hand, a gentle pressure to refocus Sherlock’s mind on John instead of the maelstrom whirling inside from too many options and possibilities.

Sherlock nodded. In a moment, they would likely know that Honey would think them outrageous. Ridiculous. Unthinkable as parents and would be unwilling to help perpetrate such an absurdity.

“What’s up?” Honey held the front door open for them, her eyebrows crinkled with worry. “All John’s text said was, _got a sec_?”

“I don’t know if you’re in the middle of anything,” John said to her and Matthew, who’d appeared at her side. “Do you have maybe an hour to discuss something? I know it’s close to bedtime.”

Matt laughed and nodded. “We have about 45 minutes until we lose total control of the two big ones. The other two are already asleep.”

The four adults sat at the dining table, the sound of preteen sit-coms and laugh tracks floating into the room.

“So, what’s up?” Matt asked, taking a drink of his coffee and cradling the mug. John chuckled to himself; if he had coffee at this time of night, he’d never get to sleep. Maybe having four kids made you immune to caffeine.

“Well,” Sherlock began, but John pressed on his foot and cut him off. God only knew what the hell Sherlock would say to end the conversation before it could begin.

“You are such great parents,” John said and smiled at the thought that someone might one day say that to him and Sherlock. Or at least him.

Honey laughed without joy. “You wouldn’t have said that earlier, when I was yelling at Siobhan for leaving her history project until the day before it was due.”

Matt’s eyes were wide and he shook his head, trying to suggest they not pursue this conversation.

“Oh yeah,” Honey said, “So much drama. So many tears.”

“And that was just from her,” Matt hitched his thumb toward his wife, who smacked his arm and stuck her tongue out at him.

“Do you think you will have more children?” John asked, carefully plotting his line of questioning, his foot still resting on top of Sherlock’s.

This time the laughter was real. “Oh God no,” Matt said. “Isn’t 4 enough? Plus you know, I had that taken care of right after Liam was born.” He crossed his legs and his eyes for good measure, remembering the pain of his bruised and swollen testicles following his vasectomy. John and Sherlock groaned in male sympathy.

“Well, I would have another in a heartbeat,” Honey said smiling, ignoring their grimaces. “I love being pregnant, with that little life inside.”

Matt pointed and teased her. “You did love it. When the baby wasn’t dancing on your bladder, or keeping you up all night, or giving you indigestion, or using your kidney as a punching bag.” Sherlock laughed along with Matt, but John knew better.

“Oh, shut the fuck up,” Honey said with no heat behind the words. “Let me remember it the way I want to.”

John cleared his throat. This was probably the best time to launch in. Sherlock squeezed his hand in support.

“We think—I mean, we have been talking and, well, we think we’d like to have a baby.” There. He’d said it. He breathed out a long slow breath waiting for a response.

“Ya’ll would be great parents!” Matt said, clapping John on the back. “I said that yesterday!”

“Ok, details! I want details,” Honey squealed, wrapping her arms around John’s in a hug. “Have you found an adoptive mother already? Or are you going overseas?”

“We rather thought we might find a surrogate carrier,” Sherlock said, his calm voice belying the roiling in his stomach.

“Really?” Honey asked, eyes bright with excitement. “Is that difficult to do?”

“There are doctors who specialize in just this procedure,” Sherlock responded. He’d hoped she would offer. Suggest. Seem interested, at least. “We would choose an egg donor from an online database and a surrogate carrier from a similar list.”

“Seems so impersonal,” Matt said, nodding at the information. “God, what if you choose wrong.”

Honey refilled her soda and said, “What if I’d chosen wrong, Matt? You do the best you can and know that it’s as much about nurture as nature.” Her bright smile warmed John. “Y’all can do this, and you know, we’ll do anything we can.”

“Funny you should say that,” Sherlock started, but again with the foot stomp. “John. If you insist on shutting me up that way, you will need to purchase new shoes for me. You are ruining these.”

“What is it?” Honey asked, leaning forward and staring at them. “What’s up?”

John sighed. This was not how this was supposed to go. He closed his eyes, breathed out, opened them and said, “We were wondering if you and Matt would consider thinking about the possibility of perhaps being our surrogate carrier.”

Honey grabbed John and Sherlock’s hands with hers. With a broad smile, she said, “Yes.”

“Yes, you’ll consider it?” John asked. Fuck it all, he’d put too many conditional words into his question and he didn’t know what yes meant.

“No.” Honey said. “We won’t consider thinking about the possibility of perhaps.”

John swallowed and blinked rapidly. He couldn’t let Matt and Honey know how much he’d been counting on them. How much stress and uncertainty they would have taken out of the process. He couldn’t even look at Sherlock. From the way he was gripping John’s hand, John knew he felt the same.

“John, seriously. Look at me,” Honey was laughing.

Why would she be laughing at our sorrow? John tried to make sense of it.

“John. We don’t have to think about it. Yes. We will,” Honey said and waited for the answer to sink in. For the two men to hear her.

John’s jaw dropped as he tried to speak but couldn’t. Sherlock squeaked out a sound.

“I never thought we’d see Sherlock speechless,” Matt said, patting him on the back. “It’s ok. C’mon. Breathe.”

“You are certain?” Sherlock finally asked. “You aren’t joking, are you, because I do believe I would not be able to recover from that.”

Honey went around to Sherlock’s chair and hugged him, dropping a kiss onto the top of his curls. “Matthew and I have discussed this since Liam was born.”

“Actually, it was one of the things she said after the delivery before she passed out from exhaustion,” Matt nodded, making fun of Honey and trying to look serious.

Honey flipped Matt off, and when she sat back down next to John, she hugged him, realizing he was crying.

“Hey now, I’m an ok pregnant lady. You don’t have to be scared,” she teased.

“Yeah,” Matt agreed. “You don’t have to be scared. It’s not like you’re gonna be living with her.” He pulled a monster face, and then tipped his head toward her. Nodding sagely. He’d done this 4 times already. He knew the truth.

“I—I can’t believe you would do this for us,” John wiped his nose on a paper napkin from the basket and pushed it into his pocket. “It’s such a gift.”

Honey finished the soda and pushed the glass away. “That’s the last caffeine for me for a while! When do we start? I’m ready when you are!”


	4. That Sugar Baby of Mine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Can the Hudson kids survive Trick or Treating with John and Sherlock?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oooh, I beta'd this one all by myself, so please forgive me! @221btls and @doctorsdaughter, I really missed your help!  
> the title comes from a Peggy Lee song, "Sugar (That Sugar Baby of Mine)" , written in 1922 http://www.jazzstandards.com/compositions-2/sugar.htm
> 
> A Sugar Baby is also a candy. Aren't I clever :D
> 
> Finally, for what it's worth, I never intend any disrespect when I name locations or items by their names (such as Skittles or Disney movies). 
> 
> This is also for LETSWRITESHERLOCK.TUMBLR.COM

“PleasepleasePleasePleasePleeeeeeease,” Honey begged Sherlock in the foyer of his house, her hands clasped in front of her and willing to beg on one knee.

“Matthew has a last minute dinner with the president of his company tonight, and we think it’s about a promotion, and I have to go too, and the man doesn’t have kids and doesn’t understand the importance of Halloween and Trick or Treating, and Sean and Siobhan are too young to take care of the little ones, and…”

Sherlock swallowed down a laugh while he tried to keep his stony face from cracking. His raised eyebrow stopped her for a moment; she smiled broadly, hopeful he would agree.

He said nothing.

“Awwww, c’mon Sherlock, don’t make me say it,” Honey whined, kicking her foot like a child in a tantrum. Still no response. Ok. That’s it. No more Miss Nice Lady.

“Listen mister. I agreed to carry your baby,” she dropped her voice but raised her finger, pointing in his face. “You _will_ take my kids Trick-or-Treating tonight, and that’s that.”

John, a mouth full of ham and cheese sandwich, choked on his laughter. “Oh my God, Sherlock, just tell her yes already!”

Honey’s shoulders relaxed as she breathed out. “Thankyouthankyouthankyou! There’s not enough money to make it up to the kids if they couldn’t go Trick-or-Treating,” she said, her voice back to its normal warmth.

John moved his lunch plate out of harm’s way. “I take it Sherlock didn’t tell you we’d already told Matt yes?” He laughed and ducked into the kitchen, away from the aftershocks.

“You!” The foot-difference in height didn’t stop Honey from grabbing Sherlock’s shoulders and shaking him. His laughter fueled her pretend-rage. “Arrrrrgh! You two are worse than my kids.” She huffed and after her about-face said, “Be at our house at 5. I’ll have them dressed and ready to go.”

Just as the front door swung closed, she issued her parting shot: “We always dress up, too. Wear. Costumes.” They heard her laughter down the sidewalk, louder than Sherlock’s groan.

“Costumes, John? Costumes?! Matthew did not say that…”

John dried his hands after washing his lunch plate. “Come on. Let’s go look in your Closet of Historical Significance. I’m sure we can find enough bits and bobs to put a costume together.”

Sherlock followed John to what had, at one time, been a coat closet; over the years that he’d lived in this house, the closet had been taken over by Items of Historical Significance that he’d found on vacations. Others added to Sherlock’s collection on their own trips, whether it were locally from Central Florida or as far away as Egypt.

“Honestly, costumes. What does he think we are, teenagers?” Sherlock stopped in his tracks; a memory sitting in the recycle bin in his Mind Palace stood up and shouted. A slow smile spread across his face.

John shuddered in fear. That face. Oh shit, that’s his _I’m Sherlock Holmes; I’m a fucking genius_ face. “What? What have you realized?”

Sherlock grabbed John by both shoulders. “Lestrade has a teenage son!”

“Daughter…” John rolled his eyes, his arms dangling by his side as Sherlock shook him.

“Agatha…”

“Anabelle…” John huffed out a breath. For the love of Christ, given the number of times Sherlock had met her over the past year, he could at least remember her name. Of course, he could barely remember Lestrade’s first name.

Sherlock waved away John’s irritation, because it truly didn’t matter. He’d already pulled his phone from his pocket and was rapidly texting, pleased with his ingenious decision.

“Sherlock. What are you doing?” John grabbed the phone. “I don’t like that look because I know what it means. You’re planning something that you think is incredibly smart but it probably really stupid.”

John read the text:

_**Contact: My Idiot Brother** _

_**Have Lestrade’s daughter at the Hudsons’ at 5 tonight. She is taking** _  
_**the children Trick or Treating. She needs to wear a costume.** _

 

John sighed, disappointed with himself for expecting anything different from Sherlock and deleted the text before it could be mistakenly sent. “Love. You can’t. You just. Can’t.”

Sherlock, brows furrowed and one eyebrow raised, expected an explanation. John led him back to the couch and sat down next to his husband.

“You are a genius, my love, and you were very clever to try to get out of this. But 3 things.” John held out one finger for each point he was going to make. “First, you should text Greg to ask about his daughter, not Mycroft. That’s just good manners. Second, you can’t just assume a 17 year old girl is available on a Friday night. And most important of all, Honey entrusted her children to _us_ , and it would be irresponsible for us to turn them over to someone else.” John patted Sherlock’s hand. “Let’s find costumes. We’ll find you something stunning.”

By 4:55pm, Antony and Cleopatra stood at the Hudsons’ front door, steeling themselves for the onslaught of comments their costumes would elicit.

“Should I even ask how you have a Cleopatra dress,” John asked, his voice lower than usual, as he stroked the silky fabric of Sherlock’s white sheath between his thumb and forefinger. “And the serpent arm wrap.” His voice cracked as he spoke, trying desperately not to think of Sherlock later that night, naked and sweaty beneath him, bucking and crying out, the emerald eye of the asp entrancing John.

Sherlock stared at the Centurion’s garb, the pleated hem of his tunic barely hiding John’s growing erection. Before Sherlock could comment, the front door swept open, _thankfully_ , he thought, since he wouldn’t have been able to speak properly.

Matthew stared at the 6’ tall Cleopatra, even taller in white heels, chin length black hair framing the sharp cheekbones and dramatic eye liner. He squeaked out a hello to his friends.

John’s chest burned, and he felt the flush on his cheeks as he stared down Matthew who had been ogling Sherlock. He took a step closer, viscerally protecting his husband.

“Wow! Uncle Sherlock! You are gorgeous!” Siobhan said from behind her father, eyeing her uncle without qualms.

“Yes, I’d always hoped for a pretty wife.” John laughed in an effort break the tension. He pushed past Matt, the residual anger forcing his shoulder into Matt’s arm.

With the baby on her hip, Honey entered the foyer still spouting instructions to the person behind her. “…he’ll probably fall asleep while you’re walking. I really appreciate this, Belle, because your uncles are…”

Honey full stopped, mid-sentence at Antony and Cleopatra in her foyer. She stood speechless. “You. Are. Gorgeous. Such an elegant, stunning creature.” Honey handed Liam to Matt, arms outstretched to hug Sherlock.

“I do look amazing.” Sherlock accepted the compliments without modesty, but Honey moved past him directly into John’s arms.

“I had to,” she whispered in his ear. “We can’t have his ego any bigger than it already is, or none of us would fit in this room!” They leaned against each other, laughing until tears stained their face. “Oh I’ve gotta stop or I’m gonna have to redo my makeup!” Honey said, dabbing at the corners of her eyes.

“Anabelle,” John asked, looking at Lestrade’s daughter, the perfect image of Belle from Beauty and the Beast. “Please tell me this incredible costume isn’t last minute.”

Anabelle’s sun bleached blonde hair was tucked up under a brunette wig, a bun atop her head and gentle curls hanging down her back. Her golden ball gown, a replica from the animated movie, completed her transformation to a Disney princess. “How could I not own this already?” she answered John, picking at her dress. “My mother makes sure I always have one that fits.” She rolled her eyes; her mother hadn’t yet realized her 17 year old baby had outgrown Disney years ago.

The doorbell rang again, and two blurs of black and blue streaked past the adults to open the door. Sean (the 9th Doctor) and Kiera (head to toe royal blue as the TARDIS) squabbled over who would give the candy to the Trick or Treater. They settled on brother opening the door and sister handing out the packet of Skittles.

“Trick or Treat!” Kiera said to the teenager at the door, holding out the candy to put in a Halloween bag.

Sean laughed and explained to his sister that she had to wait for the person to say trick or treat. “If you don’t give them a treat, they’ll play a trick on you.”

Kiera’s eyes grew large. Her lips trembled. This was the first Halloween she grasped the concept of free candy in return for a pretty smile. _Why would someone be mean to me? Tricks were never part of the plan._

“Hey! I’m Anabelle’s friend Maggie. Bae! I’m not gonna play a trick on you.” She stepped into the foyer and hugged the tiny blue. She eyed the costumes and said to her best friend, “Back to the old stand-by, huh?” More eye-rolling. More whispers about mothers.

“Well, Maggie, tell me about your costume,” Honey said diplomatically, checking out Maggie’s black jeans, flannel shirt and runny, ebony eye make-up. Black streaks highlighted her bright red hair, gelled and hair sprayed to appear carelessly tousled.

“I knew Belle would be Belle. She always is. So I tried for Beast. That didn’t work,” she said, pointing to her hair. “I tried for Mrs. Potts, but you know, that would have required white and pink, basically two colors I don’t own.” Her easy laugh encouraged the others to join in.

Honey liked this girl, down to earth, comfortable with herself. “So you know, I went with Heavy Metal Rocker. It’s a stretch but I think I can pull it off.” Maggie stuck out her tongue, pointed her forefinger and pinky, and violently nodded to music only she could hear.

“Ah, I see,” Sherlock answered, deducing another handful of items about Anabelle’s best friend. He would share these with Lestrade. Did he already know this Maggie was an actress (excellent rocker stage make up), decent grades (A/B student), a lesbian and possibly in a romantic relationship with Anabelle. He’d give that further thought.

“Oh wait! I forgot the best part!” Maggie reached into her flannel shirt pocket, flipped a switch and death metal music roared through the foyer. “Bluetooth speaker, for the full experience!”

Pumpkin-costumed Liam startled and wailed in his dad’s arms, and Kiera tucked behind Belle’s skirt. “I’m scared of that,” Kiera whispered.

In a second, Maggie had the music off and was on her knees in front of Kiera, showing her the iPhone and the speaker until Kiera smiled again.

“Ok everyone! Pictures!” Matt said, placing Liam into the small stroller. “Let’s see, the 9th Doctor and the Bad Wolf should be in front of the fireplace with their TARDIS.” Sean (black from head to toe, holding a sonic screwdriver), Siobhan (in her jeans and Union-Jack t-shirt, bangs pulled off her face and clasped atop her head) and Kiera (royal blue shirt, shorts and a blue ski cap, with white signs safety pinned to her), stood together, almost smiling and almost still. In turn, Maggie and Belle, then Sherlock and John had their pictures taken. Finally, Honey, beautiful in her black cocktail dress holding her little Pumpkin, smiled for Matt.

“We can only stay til 8,” Belle warned her uncles. “We have a party after this.”

“Why are you even here? How did you know?” John asked straightening his Centurion shin guards, careful to scoot down instead of bending over. No one needed a show.

“Uncle Sherlock texted Mycroft and informed him that I was to be here at 4:45 without question,” she laughed at John’s face, the wide eyes and thin mouth. She saw it on her dad often enough. “But I love y’all, so Mags and I decided to come over before our party.” Maggie nodded in agreement, still entertaining Kiera with tickles.

By 6, the party of eight set out down the sidewalk, the smell of fresh cut grass mingling with the aroma of baled haystacks on lawns to keep scarecrows company. Always ready to sing, John taught them simple Halloween songs and their voices surrounded and surprised the neighbors they passed.

“One little, two little, three little pumpkins,” John sang, his baritone bouncing off the homes. “Four little, five little, six little pumpkins. Seven little, eight little, nine little pumpkins. All for Halloween night!” Everyone knew the tune and jumped in; Maggie and Anabelle quickly found the harmony. Kiera the TARDIS, sang loud and off key, occasionally in tempo as she led her own Halloween Parade from house to house. The sweet sound of children’s voices calling “Trick or Treat!” and “Thank You!” rang through cooling evening.

The handle bags and plastic round jack-o-lantern candy buckets filled quickly as the 3 Hudson children, followed unabashedly by the 2 high school girls, rang doorbells. Sean kindly offered to carry a bag on Liam’s behalf, graciously agreeing to eat whatever his one year old brother couldn’t have.

Siobhan and Sean raced ahead, independent but respectful of their responsibilities to their Uncles. As long as they could hear Sean’s _Fantastic!_ And Siobhan’s _I am the Bad Wolf. I create myself_ … John was okay with that. He did try to remind the older children that Kiera the TARDIS didn’t make much sense without her Doctor and Rose Tyler. Invariably they would return to their sister, only to pull away again.

Anabelle and Maggie laughed with Kiera helping her to the doors and lifting her to ring the doorbells when she was too short. John enjoyed everything about the evening. The smell of candle wax melting inside the jack-o-lanterns, the shrieks of joy and happy noise of children enthusiastically laughing and comparing candy as they left the doorways, bags heavier with their hauls. He loved the feeling of family, the fuzzies it brought to his belly.

But the happiness didn’t mitigate the weather. John wiped his forehead with the back of his hand and swigged from his water bottle. “It’s after 7 at night, and it’s still almost 80 degrees,” John said to Sherlock, a tiny whine in his tone. “When I was little in Northumberland, we’d trick or treat dressed in coats and scarves.” John stopped short, as several curvy teen girls dressed as Playboy Bunnies sashayed past them, and he followed them with his eyes.

“Your jaw, John,” Sherlock snarked. “Perhaps close it and wipe the drool.” John stuttered, his eyes roving to see who else had caught him. “It would do you well to remember that you are married.” With an exaggerated harrumph, Sherlock turned away from John, crossing his arms at his chest and tapping his toe. “And to quite a beautiful woman,” Sherlock reminded him, his voice as sultry-female as he could sound.

“You’re the one for me, Cleopatra.” John wheeled the umbrella stroller in front of Sherlock and looked into his eyes. “You’re the only person I want,” John lowered his voice and growled. He kissed Sherlock in a way that left no question what his plans for later were. “Now. Where are the kids?” John asked the sleeping Liam and wound his way through the clogged sidewalk, leaving Sherlock in place, trying to remember how to breathe and think.

John had warned Sherlock to change into sneakers before they left the Hudsons’ at 6; too proud to admit that John's advice not to wear heels had been sound, Sherlock bore his growing blisters in silence. By 7, he winced visibly as he walked; the stares and whistles from the dads trailing behind their own children lost their allure in the pain of his pinched toes. The children’s enthusiasm waned, occasionally complaining about their legs being tired or even that their bags were too heavy.

John, an exhausted TARDIS riding on his back, suggested that they focus on the houses that led back to their own. A text message from Honey told him that they’d be home by 8 and gave the adults permission to return home.

_No one needs that much candy x 4 kids. Tell them I said it’s time_  
 _to call it a night and that, if they give you any shit, I’m going to take all of their Skittles. :D_

 

Maggie and Belle with their pumpkin-shaped buckets almost overflowing were the two who fussed the most at turning back.

“Uncle Sherlock,” Belle wheedled. “You know, Maggie and I could keep going with the kids. Not because we need more candy or anything. Just y’know, out of the goodness of our hearts.”

Sherlock planted his feet and stared at Anabelle. “I am quite shocked you would suggest such a thing.” Sherlock chastised her, shaking his head. “Honey entrusted her children to us, and as such it would be irresponsible for us to turn them over to someone else.”

John choked on the gulp of water he’d taken and coughed so loud and so long that he woke up Kiera on his back.

Sherlock stood in the middle of the crowded sidewalk, feet apart and hands on his hips, glaring. John bit his lip and continued walking, knowing that silence is often the safest part of a marriage.

They arrived at their home just shy of spending two hours traipsing the neighborhood. Kiera, who’d walked the last block home, left a trail of candy wrappers behind her as she ate her way through her stash. Sean and Siobhan trudged up the driveway, followed by Sherlock limping and favoring his right foot.

“Some gel inner soles should help next time, sister mine.” The voice startled Sherlock, enough that he dropped his white heels and stood up straighter. “Belle, you are the very picture of beauty.”

“Thank you, Mycroft,” she said and kissed his cheek. “Hi Daddy! What are y’all doing here?”

Greg stepped out of the shadows where they’d been hiding to trick the group. “Do you think we’d miss a chance to see Antony and Cleopatra in person?” He laughed and walked into the house, his arm wrapped around his Beauty.

Mycroft felt a tug on his suit jacket. “Uncle Mycroft,” Kiera asked, sleep making her voice slow. She felt the folds of his umbrella and whispered in awe, “Are you Mary Poppins?”

Sherlock snorted, and John smacked his shoulder.

Mycroft squatted down to Kiera’s eye level. “No love, I didn’t dress up this year. Maybe next year we’ll make matching costumes and trick or treat together?” She nodded slowly, her eyes wide at the idea, and quickly pecked his cheek before returning to her pile of candy.

By the time Honey and Matt returned home, the children were in their pajamas, laying on their bellies on the living room floor and trading candy with each other from their considerable piles. Liam was in his crib; Kiera had fallen asleep with her hands still buried in her stash of sweets.

Belle’s golden gown lay in a squashed pyramid on the floor, the hoops retaining their shape but the bodice caved in. One gold slipper peeked out from under the hoop; the other had been kicked away, coming to rest on Sean’s back. She’d begged her father to take her costume home, so that she and Maggie could go directly to the party.

The four men chatted quietly while the children dug through their treasures. Sherlock had searched through the pantry for cookies while John made them tea. Sean and Siobhan convinced them Honey had fed them earlier, but the adults weren’t sure they believed it—rather that the kids couldn’t bear the thought of dinner since they’d gorged themselves on candy.

“What a Norman Rockwell moment,” Honey joked as she opened her front door. “One child passed out face first in the candy. Two with more empty wrappers than I can count. And four adult overseers, not one of whom stopped them. And you’re going to be parents?”

“Wait!” Siobhan rolled over out of her sugar stupor. “Who’s having a baby? You?” She impolitely pointed at Mycroft who laughed.

“I am much too old to have a baby in my home. And before you ask _him_ ,” Mycroft patted Greg’s hand, “He already is a dad. We have Anabelle.”

“Yooooou?” Siobhan’s eyes and smile grew wide as she looked at Uncle John and Uncle Sherlock. John’s smile matched hers. “But wait a sec…You’re two…How can you…”

“Siobhan Hudson,” Honey scolded. “This is not your business. You and Sean clean up your candy and get ready for bed.”

They chucked their candy back in their plastic buckets and grabbed the empty wrappers for the trash.

“Nice going, Miss Nosy,” Sean hissed under his breath as they stomped up the stairs to their bedrooms. “They didn’t know we were still awake. We could have stayed up longer, but no, you ask too many questions.”

“I knew you were there.” Matt’s tone of voice said _Danger! Danger!_ “And brush your teeth!” The chorus of yes, dad didn’t hold much hope, but they were at least out of ear shot.

“You see that?” Matt asked, pointing in the direction of the upstairs bedrooms. “It’s not too late. Stop now while you still have your sanity and money!”

Despite his words, John and Sherlock knew Matt loved his children more than anything else and wouldn’t have decided differently years ago. “We’re sure,” Sherlock answered.

“Squeeeeeeeeeee!” Clearly, Siobhan wasn’t out of hearing range. They’d need to have that discussion with her kids soon, Honey realized.

“What happened to your fetching outfits?” Honey asked, eyeing John and Sherlock’s casual clothes.

“I assumed Cleopatra would require a change of clothes, so I grabbed whatever was on the floor,” John laughed, pointing to his spaghetti-stained t-shirt and shorts.

“That explains the lack of a suit,” Honey added. “I’ve never seen him in anything else before, certainly not running shorts and a JAMMS tank top.”

“I cannot be held responsible for my husband’s appalling lack of sartorial ability,” Sherlock sniffed, caught between trying to hide his shabby clothes and trying to make them look less wrinkled from having been balled up in the plastic grocery sack.

“Isn’t anyone going to ask about me?” Matt said, looking around to the four adults. “Huh? Anyone? Bueller? Bueller?”

“I’ll ask, Daddy!”

“Go to sleep, Siobhan,” Matt hollered upstairs. He turned back to his friends and said, “Since someone did ask, I was offered a promotion! Vice President of Aviation/Architecture.”

He and Honey both beamed. “It’s so exciting. This architecture company has offices around the world, and Matt will oversee the departments that design aviation facilities for airports, airlines and aircraft manufacturing.”

Within seconds, they were surrounded by their friends clapping them on the back and offering congratulations.

The six of them—Honey and Matt; John and Sherlock; Greg and Mycroft—were the best kind of family. A family bound by love, not genetics. Adding the 5 children and the future Holmes-Watson child (and Maggie and Mrs. Hudson of course), Honey was overwhelmed by love. She squeezed Greg’s hand and said, “We’re so lucky, aren’t we? All of us, I mean.”

He hugged her, pulling Honey in close and whispered, “I am very lucky to be part of this mess.”

As they wished their guests good night and safe driving, they heard Siobhan call out sleepily, “Good night, Uncles Sherlock and John and Mycroft and Greg. Good night Mama and Daddy. I love our family.”

Honey knew it sounded ridiculously saccharine, even from a 13-year old. But it was true. “Bless our hearts, I love our family, too.”


	5. Take Aim and Reload

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you two my two betas who hold my hand and teach me how to write hot sex. There's nothing better than hearing WOW. that was hawt! after 3 days of editing.
> 
> The title is from Don't, by Ed Sheeran. y'all know I love that song. On repeat. 
> 
> I apologize for the late posting; I was going to NaNoWriMo, but then I realized, there's already WAY too much stress in my life. i really don't need self-imposed stress!

Thank you so much for agreeing to come here to do this, Mycroft,” Honey said, setting a large bowl of spaghetti in the center of the oversized dining room table. Following behind her, Matt slid a generous bowl of meatballs next to the pasta.

“With the kids, it’s just easier to do things here,” she said as she walked out of the room, the words trailing behind her. Honey returned again and again, each time with more food: the cutting board holding the loaf of garlic bread, a bowl of shredded mozzarella, salad and dressing, a pitcher of iced tea. The aroma of the tart lemon in the sweet tea mixed with the garlic and butter and red sauce were Mycroft’s heaven. His stomach growled in appreciation. Loudly.

“It is my pleasure,” he said, speaking loud enough to cover the grumble. Judging from Greg’s snort and laughter, he hadn’t succeeded.

Matt had expanded the table to seat 10, ensuring that Sherlock had his requisite seat next to Kiera and as far from Liam as possible. (He’d never forgotten the Chicken Pot Pie Fiasco, which left his suit jacket striped with white gravy and his hair strewn with gummed bits of chicken and carrots).

“Come! Sit! Eat!” Honey called. Since Mycroft and Greg had never had the dubious pleasure of a mass chaos dinner at the Hudson’s, she showed them to their seats. “These are yours forever now,” she laughed. The children found their assigned seats, moving past Sherlock’s corner seat.

John deposited Liam into his high chair and bravely sat next to him. He didn’t mind a little mess. A little spaghetti sauce couldn’t hurt his tattered garnet-colored FSU shirt from his grad school days.

With a quick prayer and a loud “God’s neat! Let’s eat!” from Kiera (Still preferable to peas in his hair, Sherlock thought), they passed bowls and dug in. The click clack of forks and spoons hitting the plates and the scrape of the knife against the wooden cutting board were the only sounds for the first few minutes.

Liam’s screech broke the silence. Although he didn’t have any real words people could understand, his thoughts flew. He squealed loud and often, which roughly translated in his mind to _Red worms! Look! They can squirm up Uncle John’s arm! Do worms fly? Fly little worms!_

Liam stopped. His banging on the high-chair tray stopped. He held his breath as he watched his handful of worms take flight.

Mycroft stared as the spaghetti sailed toward his head in slow motion, his yelp swallowed up by Greg’s hand as it shot in front of his face to save Mycroft’s new white shirt and silk tie. Most of the pasta stayed in Greg’s palm, but some dribbled between his fingers leaving red stripes on the table cloth. One errant strand landed in a bare section atop Mycroft’s head.

Honey hung her head with a deep sigh and Matt jumped up with a handful of napkins, chair clattering to the floor.

“God, Mycroft, I’m so sorry,” he stammered, as he swiped the sauce on the top of Mycroft’s head. “We should have…I’m so sor…I don’t know…”

Mycroft reached up and took Matt’s hand off of his head. “Thank you, Matthew. I believe I shall make a full recovery.”

Matt backed away, the flush that crept up his cheeks a shade lighter than the sauce on Mycroft’s head. Mycroft wiped the bare spot and said, “Liam. You have excellent aim, child.”

Liam smiled with his eyes and mouth, exaggerated by the wide spaghetti sauce ring around his lips.

Honey hid her face in her hands. “I swear we’re better parents than that,” she mumbled, and John reached over to pat her hand.

Greg’s cackle escaped like an explosion in the silence, underscored only by Liam’s giggles. Sherlock, thrilled by his brother’s misfortune, laughed loudly.

“I’m so sorry Mycroft,” Greg said between gasps, “But that was the funniest thing I’ve ever seen. I think we’ve found your true hair color!” He wiped his eyes with his paper napkin; before long, the others joined him, Mycroft the loudest of all.

 _‘I made them laugh. I wanna do that again,’_   Liam thought, happily banging one saucy fist on his tray and the other on John’s shoulder.

John had watched Sherlock’s face during the mess. His frown and raised eye brow said only one this to John: _“Oh, Fuck. He’s probably thinking nononono. No. Not in my home. Not on my suits. Just. No.”_

(Later that that night in bed, their small talk before sleep, Sherlock told John, “That chaos will be us. Beautiful chaos. Please God, I want it to be us.”)

When the kids finished clearing the dishes, Honey and Matt asked them to sit back down instead of shooing them off as they usually did with company.

“Your daddy and I have some things to tell you,” Honey said, smiling and taking Sean and Siobhan’s hands. “I’m going to ask you to hold all your questions until we’re done.” She looked at Siobhan’s wide eyes and trembling lip, and her heart broke. “Baby girl, I promise it’s good, ok?” Siobhan nodded and tried to wipe the tears from her eyes without anyone seeing.

“Uncle Sherlock and Uncle John want to be daddies and they’ve asked for our help,” she began. Sean opened his mouth but Honey put her finger across her lips. “Doctors can start a baby in the lab, and then they’ll put that teeny baby into a woman, who will carry it.”

She knew by the blank expressions on their faces that she had done a rubbish job of explaining. Trying again, she said, “I’ve volunteered to be the surrogate carrier. The baby will grow inside me, just like each one of you did, and when he or she is born, your uncles will take the baby home.”

John and Sherlock held hands across the table and beamed at each other and at Honey, who was making this possible.

“Uh, so, uh, they’re gonna have sex with you?” Sean asked, looking nauseated.

“Noooooo,” John shook his hands, aghast.

“Sean Matthew Hudson!” Matthew gasped.

“Oh God no!” Sherlock shuddered visibly.

Greg’s self-control, weakening steadily over the course of the dinner, was gone. He lowered his head and covered his mouth, laughing into his napkin. Mycroft’s death grip on his thigh wasn’t helping.

“Allow me,” Mycroft interrupted. Gratefully, all eyes turned to him. He directed his explanation to the older two children. “You both have a working knowledge of human biology. I will not patronize you with childish terminology. Sherlock and John have procured eggs from an anonymous female donor. Each of them will provide semen, and the laboratory will separate the eggs into two batches. One will be fertilized with Sherlock’s semen and the other with John’s.”

The children watched him, enthralled with the scientific terms and dispassionate explanation. The adults squirmed in their seats, uncomfortably waiting for the technical details to be finished.

“After several days, the doctors will determine which of the eggs have proceeded to embryos. They will choose one from each father and place them inside of your mother. _Those_ details your parents can provide. From that point, it will be just as it was when she was pregnant with baby Liam. If all goes according to plan, you will be a cousin to one or possibly two babies.”

Matt and Honey smiled at Mycroft, thankful that the discussion was over but waiting for the inevitable questions. Sean and Siobhan smiled warily; Mycroft had left too many details out for their comfort.

“Mama?” Kiera broke the silence. “Are you gonna be fat again?” She arched her back and rubbed her tummy, just like Mama had done for months.

“I hope so,” Honey’s voice cracked, looking at her babies and her friends. This would be a beautiful gift.

Matthew excused the children. He carefully lifted Liam out of his high chair and took him to the nursery to put him down for the night.

With coffee and tea on the table, Mycroft placed a thick folder in front of him.

“Sherlock and John have asked me to provide legal representation for this procedure for them as well as you. However, if you prefer to retain your own counsel, that is your option.”

Matthew cleared his throat and looked around the table. “Do we need a lawyer? Is all of this necessary?”

Sherlock spoke quietly. “Some of it is necessary for the transfer of the child to be binding. However, this process has risks. We are hoping to protect you and your family in such a way that you know you can trust us.” He looked around, solemn stares returning his.

Mycroft tapped his papers on the table to align them. “Gregory is present as a witness. If you prefer, we can certainly use Emma.” Matt and Honey shook their heads. Greg was family now anyway.

“The following are items that Sherlock and John wanted to be legally binding,” Mycroft said looking at the pages. “If either party wishes to make any changes, we will discuss that after the initial reading.”

Mycroft waited for four nods and continued.

“According to this contract, the Intended Parents—Mr. Holmes and Mr. Watson¬—will pay the following to the Surrogate Carrier—Mrs. Honoria Hudson¬“

He couldn’t continue because of the raucous laughter at Honey’s given name. It roared from the table and from the family room.

Honey jumped out of her chair to fuss at Sean and Siobhan. “First, you’re not supposed to be eavesdropping,” she yelled, jabbing her index finger in their direction. “Second, it’s pronounced _ah-NOR-ee-ah_ , not _on-ah-ree-ah_. It was your great-grandmother’s name.” The giggles almost stopped.

“And you!” she whirled, directing her wrath toward the men at the table. “Forget that you ever heard that horrible name! I’ve been called Honey since I was a baby.” Greg snickered, his sides aching from laughter. This was better than a comedy club.

For good measure, she turned slowly to her husband. “And you,” her voice dropped and carried the heat of a supernova. “If you ever want to get laid again, get a blow job, or touch these,” she pushed her breasts up, “ever again, you will never mention that you heard this conversation.”

With his eyes closed, Matt bit his lips and mumbled, “Yes dear.”

“Yes, well--” Mycroft attempted to recover his composure. “The Surrogate Carrier will receive the following: The standard $40,000 to cover the actual pregnancy and delivery, with $5000 for each additional fetus carried. Should a Caesarian Section be required, you would receive $1500. You will receive a $750 allowance for maternity clothing, which will be increased should you carry multiple fetuses.”

Neither Honey nor Matt spoke. Nor were they capable of speaking. Those numbers were extraordinary for something they had taken for granted themselves.

“This is…no…we can’t…” Honey whispered, her heart breaking for her friends. “We _want_ to do this for you.”

Sherlock knelt at her side and held her hand in both of his. "Honey, this is non-negotiable. You are willing to give us the most precious gift anyone could ever bestow upon another. What we are offering you is nothing in comparison.”

Honey wrapped her arms around Sherlock’s neck and whispered through the lump in her throat, “I love you so much. Why are we so blessed?”

Sherlock stroked the back of her head, which rested against his cheek. “You are the blessing,” he said, his voice filled with emotion. He heard a sniffle from across the table and stood up.

John wouldn’t look at him; his emotions were too raw. He dragged his hand across his cheek and looked up to the ceiling.

Mycroft coughed and shuffled his papers, giving everyone time to regain their composure. “To continue, the Intended Parents will also pay all relevant medical and pharmaceutical copays. Your health insurance will cover this pregnancy; if a problem arises, those bills will be covered by the Intended Parents. Finally, the Intended Parents have taken a $1 million life insurance policy out in the name of the Surrogate Carrier, with her husband the beneficiary. It covers the pregnancy, delivery and post-partum recovery period.”

The sheer amount of money Mycroft spoke of so casually rendered the Hudsons speechless. Tens of thousands of dollars for them. For something they freely offered. They held hands, grasping tightly.

“We don’t want the $40,000,” Honey said, and Matt agreed.

“Then the Intended Parents have instructed me to open a Florida 529 College Fund for your four children, seeded with $10,000 each. The accounts will be invested for maximum growth. Whether you choose the cash or the college funds, the money is ear-marked for you.” Mycroft’s voice stayed firm. He’d spoken at length with John and Sherlock about this issue; the three knew it would be contentious, and Mycroft had suggested the college funds. What parent could refuse money for their children?

Honey remained silent for far longer than any one of the men had ever seen. _“Oh God, she’s going to back out,”_ John thought. _“Please don’t. God, please don’t let her change her mind.”_

He interlaced his fingers with Sherlock’s and squeezed, harder than he intended. But Sherlock returned the pressure. His thoughts were identical. Neither dared to breathe, waiting for her to speak.

Honey looked up at two of her best friends, their faces pale. She whispered, “The moment my doctor placed Liam in my arms, wrinkled and red, my first thought was, John and Sherlock should have this experience. That y’all should know the miracle of a newborn.”

Neither man hid tears this time. Honey, her face tear-streaked, reached across to them to take their hands. “Please don’t think it was about money or clothes or--”

Sherlock sniffed and wiped his nose on his paper napkin. “Many years ago, my grandmother placed money in trusts for me and for my brother. It has been well managed over the years, and to be honest and frankly gauche, neither I nor my brother have ever needed to work.”

Greg stared at Mycroft, his mouth forming a small O. The house, the land, the second home in Greece. That’s how. Mycroft, reading Greg’s thoughts, blushed.

“These numbers,” Sherlock said, wiping his eyes, “they mean nothing to me and John compared to your generosity. I would double it. Triple it.” He looked at Mycroft, not for permission but for how much he could offer.

“No, Sherlock. Not more. Put the money in college accounts for the kids.” That was something she and Matthew couldn’t do consistently, with the bills and expenses of living. “But we have everything else we need. I don’t need an allowance. I don’t need new clothes. As long as I have my family and all y’all, I’m good.” She smiled at Matt and kissed him, a fleeting slide of lips.

Mycroft used the shift in mood to explain the next steps for the Hudsons.

“There will be medical and psychological evaluations before the procedure can begin. Sherlock and John have procured eggs from an excellent donor,” Mycroft passed around her donor profile.

 

 

 

 

 _"_ Actually, you _four_   will go through therapy. It is possible you may have to go through a ‘fetal reduction’ and you will need to know if you can endure such a choice.”

Honey gasped, reaching out for Matt. “That would be horrible.”

With plans laid out and agreed to, it was time for the guests to leave. As they stood at the door saying their good byes, Mycroft checked the list of appointments he would schedule. “Honey, I will schedule your appointment also. Your process requires a month prior to the transfer.”

Mycroft patted his pocket when his phone pinged with a text she'd sent. “Excellent. Expect a call tomorrow from Anthea with the details. Once the gentlemen leave their deposits…”

This time, Greg couldn’t hold himself upright. He leaned against the wall, gasping and grabbing his sides. “I’m so sorry. Y’all are never gonna invite me back, but this has been the best dinner. Ever.” He barely squeaked the words out between guffaws. “Deposits.”

“Come along Gregory.” Mycroft sighed and took Greg’s hand and led him down the brick walkway.

\-----

“What kind of lawyer _**is**_ Mycroft, exactly?” John asked weeks later as they entered the reproductive clinic. “He got Honey an appointment to start her meds the day after we signed the contract. I called this place in October, and they were booking appointments for the end of January. Mycroft gets involved and we get an appointment that coincides with Honey’s cycle?”

Sherlock dismissed John’s questions, instead burying his face in registration paperwork attached to the clipboard. John’s clipboard lay at his side as he talked.

“And that’s another thing,” John said, his finger in Sherlock’s face. “This egg donor is perfect. _**Perfect**_. Research scientist at an Ivy League university? How did he find her? Is she actually human? Remember that Baskerville project that was all over the news when we were growing up in England? What if--” He picked up his clipboard to begin the paperwork, but his eyes never reached the documents.

“John,” Sherlock squeezed John’s shoulder. “Be thankful for his reach.” John dropped his head and nodded. Sherlock was right. Stop picking.

“I will never say this again, so listen carefully,” Sherlock whispered in the quiet waiting room, so that the few other gentlemen wouldn’t hear him. “My brother can be a kind, compassionate, loving person. I’ve seen glimpses of it over my 35 years, but we prefer a more--prickly relationship. I believe this is his way of telling us a great deal: that he approves of our desire to be parents. Possibly even that he and Greg are ready to be a bigger part of our lives.”

John buried his face in Sherlock’s neck and inhaled. The Sherlock-ness of that scent—the lemon shampoo, the hint of garlic from last night’s dinner, the sweet sweat at his collar¬—calmed him.

“Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth. Even if that horse is Mycroft.” Sherlock stroked John’s hair and down his back until he could feel John’s breathing settle against his cheek interrupted by his giggle.

The door at the end of the waiting room squeaked open, interrupting their conversation. “Mr. Holmes. Dr. Watson,” she called with two charts in her hands. As they walked past her she said, “I’d set up two exam rooms, but I see that you are married. Would you prefer the same room?”

They nodded before they realized that the nurse, who was leading them to their room, couldn’t see their response.

“Yes,” Sherlock answered out loud. “We would prefer to be in the same room.” John took his hand and Sherlock felt the tremble matching his own. John heard snippets of dialogue coming from under the doorway of an exam room. He knew the sound on the TVs must be turned almost all the way down, but in the silence of the hallway, it could have been surround sound.

Their room provided a DVD player with a modest stack of movies. Two leather arm chairs faced the TV screen. For the client who preferred reading material, magazines were piled haphazardly on the side table. Sherlock picked up a magazine by its corner and immediately dropped it, wiping his fingers on his handkerchief.

When she closed the door to the room, she smiled at the two men. “Mr. Holmes?” Sherlock nodded. “Please have a seat. I have few question before I leave you two alone.”

She smiled, probably rote for her, but to John and Sherlock it felt lecherous. She knew what they would do when the door closed.

“To verify. You have not ejaculated for at least two days prior to today but no more than 5 days,” she ticked yes at their answer. John couldn’t meet her eyes as he answered her questions, but Sherlock refused to be embarrassed. He removed his phone from his pocket and turned to his side to text:

 

_We are grown men who have done nothing shameful or wrong._  
 _Look at her. Do not be embarrassed._

 

John’s phone vibrated in his jacket pocked. He read the text and smiled. When the nurse handed them the sterile containers, John barely blushed.

“Please keep your semen separate. That way when it’s tested, if there’s a problem, we'll know who needs to be retested. Wash and dry your hands as well as your penis, and be thorough in rinsing both.” She pointed to the no frills sink and the wicker tray of white terry cloth towels.

“We've got videos and magazines,” she pointed toward the table. “Saliva is the only lube you can use, but please don’t mix yours and his. When you're done, close the containers tightly and put them in the cubby in the wall. Within three hours, your sperm will be separated from your ejaculate, tested, and then the doctor will choose the sperm to be used.”

“We have provided 11 eggs,” Sherlock said, his hand gripping the donation cup.

“Yes, they’re here,” she answered, handing them a brochure. She pointed to a timeline and explained, “We’ll try to fertilize 5 eggs with Dr. Watson’s semen and 6 with yours. Within 24 hours, we’ll know which have been fertilized. We will be in touch within 72.”

As she closed the door she called, “Have fun!” and left the husbands alone in the room. They stared at each other, not knowing what to say or what to do with their bodies.

John reached to the table. “Magazine?” He grabbed the first from the pile and read its title. “ _Big Boob Babes_.” He snickered, knowing that would do Sherlock no good. “Let me look.” He pawed through the pile, each magazine title more ludicrous than the one before. “ _Vaginal Fantasy. Pussy Galore. Bondage Biker Babes_.”

“No gay magazines, then?” Sherlock said, biting his lips and holding back a laugh.

“Oh God,” John said, holding the DVD cases which had questionable stains on the plastic. “These are just as bad.” The cases clattered as they slipped out of his fingers onto the table.

Sherlock wrapped his arms around John’s waist and whispered in John’s ear. “We’ve never needed any aids before. We won’t need them today.” He lifted John’s chin and closed the distance between them until he was breathing John’s air. The soft kiss, the familiar slide of John’s lips on his. This made things right, not magazines or movies. His best friend. John’s smooth lips, the whiskers rough against Sherlock’s thumbs as he stroked John’s cheeks. The long eyelashes that tickled Sherlock’s cheekbones

The office was chilly beyond comfort, but Sherlock unbuttoned his shirt, inviting John. He wanted John’s hands on his bare skin, to slide down his back, across his chest, teasing his cock as he dragged his fingers across Sherlock’s balls and then further back.

John reached out and sighed, his palm stroking Sherlock’s chest. He knew. He knew what Sherlock needed. He dragged his tongue across Sherlock’s stubble, flicking at the chiseled jaw, bruising his neck and smiling as Sherlock turned his head, granting him the stretch of skin down his chest. John did just that, nipping at Sherlock’s collar bone as he slid the expensive cotton shirt off Sherlock’s shoulders until it fluttered to the floor, pooling at Sherlock’s feet.

He pushed Sherlock down into one of the leather chairs and held him down, locking his eyes on his husband’s Caribbean blues. John palmed the bulge struggling against Sherlock’s fly, moaning as he watched Sherlock fall apart as he bucked against John’s hand trying to find the friction he desperately needed.

“Open your eyes, baby,” John growled, his hand cradling Sherlock’s sharp jaw. “Look at me.”

His eyes didn’t leave Sherlock’s, even as he pulled his trousers down and then hitched his thumbs in his boxer-briefs and peeled them off.

John’s cock bobbed in front of him as he stepped out of his clothes. His t-shirt was still on; Sherlock could take that off of him if he wanted. He hovered over Sherlock’s lap and lowered himself inch by inch, finally pressing his cock against the bulge in Sherlock’s pants and rolling his hips.

Sherlock moaned and grabbed John’s ass, pulling him closer and down, friction for both of them. Not enough. Not nearly enough. He pushed John’s t shirt up, pinching his nipples, rolling them between his fingers. John hissed with each pinch, each pull.

“You were right. _This_ is what we do,” John said, backing off Sherlock’s lap. He unbuckled Sherlock’s belt, then lowered himself to his knees to nip at the bulge straining at the suit’s fly. “This is how we make love.” He pressed against Sherlock’s cock as he unzipped the trousers, removing them and the silk boxers. He traced the length of Sherlock’s cock with kisses and then swallowed him as far as he could.

The warmth, the wet. Sherlock bucked before realizing he couldn’t…shouldn’t…fuck John’s mouth, but when John’s tongue swirled over the slit and darted in and out, he couldn’t stop himself. He thrust up into John’s throat, much further than he should have, and John’s response, his hums of appreciation, were too much.

John he pulled off, his eyes still locked on Sherlock’s. “Let me wash you,” hesaid, his voice slow and thick. Returning with the moistened, pre-soaped cloth, he gently washed Sherlock’s cock starting at the base and kissing each spot before he washed it.

Sherlock held his breath with each touch, in fear he would come too soon from the delicious, excruciating tension. One last time, John took the head into his mouth and sucked hard as he pulled off. Before Sherlock could miss the warmth of his mouth, John covered him with the wash cloth, gentle on the sensitive tip.

He wet several more wash cloths and rinsed Sherlock’s cock to remove any remaining soap. Sherlock pulled him down in a deep needy kiss, his tongue searching for John’s. Without a second thought, John dropped the wet cloths and cradled Sherlock’s face in his hands. When he broke away, he handed the collection cup to Sherlock. He held up his palm, and Sherlock dragged his tongue up, leaving a wet stripe.

John stood to the side of the chair where he could lean his bare chest against Sherlock’s arm, kiss his neck, his ear as he stroked his cock. Long strokes, circling the head, swiping over the tip with a twist of his wrist.

“I love you,” he whispered in Sherlock’s ear. “I’ve never loved anyone the way I love you.” He sucked at the sweet spot under Sherlock’s earlobe as Sherlock bucked into his fist. As cold as the room was, Sherlock’s sweat slicked shoulder rubbed John’s chest until he gasped and stilled.

John’s cock twitched at Sherlock’s orgasm, desperate to join. Instead John took the cup from Sherlock’s grasp and secured the top. He’d caught most of the ejaculate in the container; John rinsed the soapy cloth to wipe up the rest.

When Sherlock’s breathing eased, he pulled his boxers on and asked, “What can I do for you?” Did he have any idea what that voice, graveled and hot, did to John? It ran through him in a direct line to his already throbbing cock.

Grabbing new cloths, John lowered himself into second arm chair. “Come here,” he said, staring into Sherlock’s eyes. “Talk to me. Tell me what you would do to me if we were home.”

Fighting his delicious lethargy, Sherlock moved to John’s side. “Be careful when you clean that,” he whispered, the puffs of his breath teasing John’s neck, “It’s mine.”

Eyes closed, John whimpered as he stroked the soapy cloth over his erection. “May I please?” Sherlock asked, his warm hand on top of John’s. He took the cooling wash cloth and replaced it with a hot, wet one. “There. I think that’s clean enough, don’t you?” Sherlock asked, not expecting an answer. He moved the cloth down to John’s balls and cupped them in the unexpected warmth.

John’s mewl, the tension in his thighs told Sherlock what he needed to know. He pressed the collection cup into John’s hand. “I wish this were my tongue,” Sherlock said, as he slipped his index finger through the drops pooling at the slit and slowly stroked his finger down John’s length.

A strangled noise from John. He loved this man’s voice. His tongue. His heart and soul.

Sherlock dragged his finger back up John’s cock, through the wetness, and swirled his finger around the crown. “If we were home,” he said, dropping his voice even further, “I would swallow you until you hit the back of my throat, and let you fuck my mouth as rough as you wanted. Just before you came, I’d pull off and you’d come on my neck, my chest, and before you were done, I’d drag my finger through it and lick it clean.” His palm traced John’s neck, chest, and he pulled John’s nipple roughly.

John’s fist had replaced Sherlock’s, stroking up and twisting his wrist, moaning as he whispered, _yes I love you, yes yes yes._

Sherlock nipped John’s neck. “Come. Come into cup and when you’re done, I’m going to suck you clean.”

John had denied himself, but that image was too much. His legs clenched, and he barely had the thought to hit the cup before his orgasm overtook him.

Sherlock gently removed the cup from John’s hand, capping it and placing it in the wall cubby. True to his word, he swallowed John’s half hard cock and licked the droplets of semen, careful of the sensitive skin.

John’s voice trembled as he said to Sherlock, “We’re going to make a baby.”

Sherlock offered John a hand to pull him out of the sunken seat and helped him back into his clothing. He couldn’t speak; he wanted to memorize this, every detail and sound, to recall it forever. He wrapped John into a hug.

“I love you, Poppy,” Sherlock whispered, pressing a gentle kiss on John’s lips.

“Me too, Dada. Me too.”


	6. Let's Do It Like They Do on the Discovery (Health) Channel...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> it's time for the teeny tiny cell-babies to be transferred to Honey, or should we say, Hell-Mom. and then, how many babies, and whose baby and then we wait.4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> huge thanks to 221btls for her beta and amazing support. And to doctorsdaughter, geronimo, and girlscoutgirlie for listening to me whine, and for telling me that 8000 words juuuuuust might be too many for one chapter. They were right, and i was wrong. Savor those words.
> 
> The song John sings is called "Bad Touch" by the Bloodhound Gang
> 
> my apologies that this took so long to post. i wrote and i wrote and it wouldn't end, and it finally ended and it was 8000 words. let's just say, chapter 7 will be here in just a day or 2. lol.

“Congratulations!” Doctor Dimmock's voice boomed through the speaker, his voice echoing through their kitchen. “Eight of your eggs have fertilized and look healthy."

Dimmock might have said more but John didn't hear anything. Three interminable days they’d waited for this call, losing their patience, growling at stupid strangers, snapping at each other. And with one word, John had forgotten it all, lost in baby coos, and sweet giggles and eyes the color of Sherlock's. He hugged himself, feeling the warmth and love of a baby in his arms. Sherlock buried his face in John's neck caught between laughing and crying; the tears dropped onto John's collar.

"... We’ve scheduled the transfer for Thursday; at that time we’ll decide how many to transfer.”

John’s stomach felt heavy and unsettled, but his heart soared. He tried to say something coherent, but knew it was gibberish. His only thought was Sherlock, how much he needed to touch the person whom he loved most in this world, with whom he’d share this miracle.

Sherlock nodded and hung up. He wiped his face as he smiled at John. “Crying like a fool--”

“Crying like someone in love.” John held Sherlock’s face softly between his hands and kissed where the tears had been. “Come on Daddy. Let’s go tell Honey.”

Instead of using the bell in case it was naptime, Sherlock and John knocked on the Hudsons’ front door. And knocked again. The SUV was in the driveway, so unless she and the baby took a walk, Honey should be home.

First, they heard Liam’s caterwaul barely muffled by the door.

Then, they heard Honey’s angry “Keep your fucking pants on!” not at all muffled by the door.

“Did she just say, _keep your fucking pants on_?” John asked Sherlock, his eyes wide. “She almost never cusses.”

The caterwaul drew closer. “Perhaps we came at a bad time,” Sherlock said, backing away from the door but it swung open before they could run.

“You better not be selling something, motherfucker or—oh, it’s _you two_.”

Honey, who frowned, walked away from the open door shoving a pacifier into squirming Liam’s mouth. From her wild hair and wide yawns, they knew they’d screwed up.

“We’ll come back another time,” John said, holding his hand out to keep Sherlock out of the house.  
Punctuated by long, loud yawns, Honey answered from the kitchen. “No. ‘M up now. He’s not goin’ back to sleep. Come in.”

John and Sherlock followed her command, unsure what would happen if they didn’t. With Liam on one hip, she searched the pantry for his snack, tilting boxes to see behind them, pushing them out of the way, finally settling on Cheerios.

“I’m so friggin’ exhausted between the meds and his growth spurt. He’s up at night to nurse again.” She rubbed the side of her heavy breast, sore from the additional milk her body was providing.

Sherlock pushed past the more cautious John and followed Honey into the kitchen.

“Has the clinic called you today?” Sherlock asked, eager to find the details for the appointment.

Honey stared into space, face scrunched trying to think as the baby on her hip kicked at her thigh. “I think the phone rang when I was trying to sleep,” she said, plunking Liam into his high chair and spilling Cheerios on the tray.

Exasperated, Sherlock pushed further. His voice dripped with kind sarcasm as he asked, “Could you check? It’s a tiny bit important.”

So tired that his snark didn’t even register, Honey nodded. She left in the direction of her bedroom. When she returned, an overflowing laundry basket sat on her hip, dirty plates perched atop the dirty clothes. She smiled at Sherlock, who stared open mouthed at her, and dropped the basket in front of the laundry room. She brought the dishes to the sink to rinse them before sliding them into the dishwasher. “It feels so good to start and finish something. Between the exhaustion and the meds, I’m always forgetting things these days.”

Sherlock laughed incredulously, a little nastier than he had intended. John gripped his wrist to hold him back from saying anything more.

Honey stopped and looked at John, reassured by his kind smile. “Oh, what did I forget?” She mentally retraced her steps, silently ticking off events on her fingers. “Aha! I was going to start laundry.” She poured more Cheerios onto Liam’s tray and refilled his Sippy cup to stop him banging it like a cartoon prisoner, before winding her way back to the laundry room.

“Honey,” John said gently, touching her arm. She pulled her head from the washer and looked at him, trying to determine what she'd forgotten now.

“Phone!” She smiled and dashed to the bedroom, stopping only to kiss Liam’s head and to laugh at his squeal.

“The clinic left a voicemail,” she said putting the phone on speaker. The tinny message played to the breathless silence.

“Mrs. Hudson, your procedure is scheduled for 2pm tomorrow. Please--”

Ecstatic chaos broke out with the news. Honey hugged her two friends, tight bear hugs trying to explain how she felt. John and Sherlock spoke at the same time, trying to be heard over Liam’s ma ma ma ma ma ma as he banged on the tray.

“Brilliant,” John said, his grin filling his face.

“Could we--¬“ Sherlock said as he tried to catch Honey’s attention.

“Would you--“ Honey said, breaking apart from them to find the closest item that would work as a tissue.

“What?” Sherlock asked.

“Ma ma ma ma ma!” Bang bang bang!

Honey picked up Liam, sliding his legs carefully from behind the high chair’s tray. She buried her face in his neck and said, “Would y’all want to be there to see it?”

Neither man responded.

“I mean, you don’t have to. I just didn’t know if--I know it’s private. You probably just don’t need to see that much of me--” She hid her face in Liam’s neck to hide the flush on her face while he bopped her shoulder with his rattle.

“We weren’t going to ask,” John said, wanting to hug her, worried about intruding, unsure what to do.

“I was going to ask,” Sherlock cut John off, ignoring John’s death glare. “He said I couldn’t.” Sherlock poked John’s side, making John squeak and smack his hand.

Liam turned toward the noise from his uncles and shook his rattle at them. “Ma ma ma ma ma!”

\----

The next afternoon, a clinic nurse ushered the two men and Honey into the consultation office. John moved the throw pillow from the corner of the leather couch and held it in his lap, his fingers gripping the edges. It must have lavender in the stuffing, John thought, as he breathed in and then slowly released it. He suspected it was intended to be calming. It didn’t work.

Doctor Dimmock smiled at Sherlock and John before introducing himself to Honey. The first decision they had to make, he explained, was to decide how many embryos would be transferred.

“Given your relatively young age and excellent physical condition, Ms. Hudson,” the embryologist explained, “I would suggest transferring only one blastocyst, unless you specifically want twins.”

Sherlock nodded and slid his fingers between John’s. Their simple code, reminding each other love and support, was a gentle squeeze of hand in hand, asked and answered.

“I don’t know why we didn’t realize this would be our decision,” John said, his voice tight and he held onto Sherlock’s hand for support.

Honey breathed deep and turned to the two men. “I don’t know if physically I will be able to do this again for you and I don’t want there to be any regrets.” Tears welled in her eyes. She didn’t want to fail her friends, but the responsibility was monumental.

Her voice cracked, and she reached for a tissue to give herself time to compose herself.  
“Some of the embryos are John’s and some are Sherlock’s, is that right?” When the doctor nodded his confirmation, Honey continued, “Could we transfer one from each father? Because I don’t think I could ask you to choose just one.”

She looked at each face in the room, finally resting on John and Sherlock’s. Had they thought of this? Who would say, _choose his, not mine_.

She rested her arm on John’s legs and grasped Sherlock’s hand, needing the connection to them.

“When this baby is born,” Honey said, brushing away the tears on her cheeks with the back of her free hand, “I just don’t think I can do it again.” She laughed and said, “Go big or go home, right?”

John hugged her gently. “Yeah?” He held his breath until he felt her cheek nod against his.

“I always preferred a good bargain,” Sherlock said, a bubble of joy rising in his voice. “Buy one, get one free.”

Honey turned and hugged Sherlock. The doctor clear his throat, maybe suggesting they should move along, but this moment. She wouldn’t rush it, instead burrowing her face further into Sherlock’s neck and collar, the scent of him calming and anchoring her.

Agreeing to a two blastocyst transfer, Dr. Dimmock led Honey to the procedure room. John and Sherlock remained outside to dress themselves in sterile gowns, booties, and caps before they were led in. In a blue hospital gown, Honey lay on the exam table with her feet up in the metal stirrups and her knees angled out.

“Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world, you two walk into mine,” Honey said to the two pair of blue eyes smiling over surgical face masks. She saw the worry lines on John’s forehead. “Hey this is no big deal,” she said to John on her right, lacing his fingers through hers. “Just like my yearly exam, not even anesthesia.” Sherlock stood on her left side and held that hand, entwining her fingers with his.

An overhead monitor showed a live feed from the laboratory, with the Embryologist working with the insemination dishes and a syringe. He held the syringe to the monitor, and with crinkled eyes and a thumbs up, he walked out of the camera’s range to appear in person in the procedure room.

“Holmes-Watson via Hudson, two blastocysts to be transferred. Gender undetermined,” he announced to the room, placing the syringe tray down and checking the ID bracelets of all involved.

“Ready to make magic?” He asked, as he sat down on a rolling stool at Honey’s feet.

John’s heart raced as he watched the doctor. He was probably squeezing Honey’s hand too hard, but he couldn’t stop any more than he could stop grinning. Desperate to giggle, he leaned toward Sherlock and said, “You have diaper duty. I called it.”

Snorting indignantly, Sherlock’s retort was cut short by the doctor, looking over his mask from one man to the other. “Dad 1? Dad 2? Are you ready?”

Honey’s hands tightened in theirs as they watched the blurry gray and black image on the Ultrasound monitor. As the catheter threaded into Honey’s uterus, Sherlock felt her tremble.

Thinking she needed a blanket in the chilly room, Sherlock leaned down to offer to find one until he saw tears slowly washing her cheeks.

“Wait! Stop!” Sherlock said to the Embryologist, whose thumb was on the plunger ready to complete the transfer. “Honey. What’s wrong?” The pad of his long, thin thumb brushed the tears from her cheeks reminding her at that moment that she would be cared for.

“It’s just so,” she heaved out a sob, “It’s so beautiful. With the other kids it was passion and heat and vague thoughts. But this is...”

“Like being present at the start of the world,” John said, surprised to find his own face wet. His life had changed immeasurably in the past year, finding a good friend who became a lover, a husband and now a father. His world had crumbled but rebuilt itself on this foundation. He saw in Sherlock’s face that his own words had given voice to the secrets in Sherlock’s heart.

Honey nodded. “It is the start of your world. Are you certain? It’s not too late,” she asked, without ever wondering what their answer would be.

“The minute your husband said that we would be good parents, it was too late,” Sherlock said, kissing her fingers wrapped around his. He turned to the doctor and nodded.

Eyes back on the grainy monitor images. Catheter rethreaded. A nurse stood by the monitor and, with the sharp point of a pencil, showed them where the blastocysts would exit the catheter.

“Ready?” the doctor asked one final time. Honey nodded. Sherlock nodded.

John answered in the way he approached life—with a song.

 

_**You and me baby, ain’t nothin’ but mammals** _   
_**So let’s do it like they do on the Discovery Channel** _

 

Dr. Dimmock snorted and Sherlock’s dropped jaw and shocked stare made it even funnier. “John Hamish Watson! I hope you won’t sing things like that in from of our child!” Sherlock gasped.

“Oh, Sherlock,” Honey squeaked through her laughter, “You really just don’t know John at all, do you.”

John stood at her side, a beatific smile on his face, the picture of innocence.

Before anything else could delay him again, Dimmock pushed the plunger, and a puff of air from the syringe sent the two embryos into Honey’s womb.

 

 

“We’re going to ask you to lie here for about ten minutes,” the Doctor instructed as he removed the speculum and drew Honey’s gown over her knees. With her feet still in the stirrups and her knees pointed outward, the gown didn’t cover or hide much. A nurse placed a light weave blanket over Honey, extending to her toes.

Left alone in the room, John and Sherlock avoided looking at Honey. For some reason, her feet in the stirrups seemed more intimate than anything else that had happened that day. The silence dragged out, more awkward the longer it lasted.

“So, Honey,” Sherlock said, looking for something to say, “Did you have to stay like this after having sex with Matthew?”

“Sherlock!” John gasped. “You can’t ask that. Apologize.” The blush ran up his face, embarrassed that his husband had no tact.

“As a matter of fact, I did,” she answered, craning her neck to see them behind her. “Only for the first two, though. We were more casual about the last two.” She laughed at John’s discomfort. Making him blush was one of her passions, and she took every opportunity that came her way.

The three of them joked about anything to avoid the what-ifs. What if it didn’t work? What if there were two? What if there were a genetic anomaly? Instead they talked about names (“No, Sherlock, we won’t be naming our daughter Cleopatra or Betsy…Well maybe Betsy.”) and whether they wished for a boy or girl. (“You want a boy. Admit it, John.”)

When the nurse released them to leave, she gave them their final instructions. For the first 24 hours, Honey need have her feet up as often as possible. For the next 3-4 days, no strenuous activity.

To ensure there would be no misunderstanding, the older nurse said, “And that includes sex, you three. She’s got to abstain, and you’ve got to be understanding.”

John stuttered out his shocked response. “We’re not…” The nurse smiled and nodded. She’d heard it all before.

Sherlock stood tall and affected his haughty professor face. “Madam, I assure you, Ms. Hudson is not our inamorata…” The nurse smiled again. She’d seen it all before.

Honey turned her head away from the nurse, her shoulders shaking. John, who stood next to her, patted her hand and shaking his head.

“Madam, you have offended Mrs. Hudson to the point that she is sobbing.” Sherlock pointed to the door and said, “Please leave now.”

Once the door clicked shut, Honey grabbed John’s hand and the two of them howled, John almost doubled over in pain from holding his in until the nurse left.

“C’mon boys, let’s go to my place and we can slip into something more comfortable,” Honey wiggled her eyebrows suggestively as she navigated herself awkwardly off the table while holding the back of her hospital gown closed.

Sherlock grimaced and said, “Sweatpants?”

“Yes!” John and Honey chorused.

“If y’all don’t want to see more of me, you’d better leave, because I’m taking off this stupid gown,” Honey said as she shooed them out of the procedure room.

Sherlock grimaced again and groaned, and Honey laughed, “Just be glad you don’t live with me. I’ve been known to run naked across the house to the laundry room for clothes!” she said as she shut the door on her two friends.

She stroked her belly, rubbing small circles as she did when she was pregnant with Liam. It was silly, she knew. Nothing could have even happened yet, but she felt a peace in her soul. Like walking in the fresh-fallen snow at night, the only one brave enough to be outside. Like waking up on your birthday as a child, knowing it would be the best day of the year. Like falling in love, smiling like a fool because you have no control over your own spirit.

In three weeks, a blood test would confirm what she already knew. Because she’d only known this feeling four times before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> http://www.advancedfertility.com/videos/ivf-embryo-transfer-video.mp4 take 30 seconds to watch this amazing vid. literally 30 seconds. it's the COOLEST vid ever!


	7. A Surprise On The Way...Any Day, Any Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The waiting is the hardest part... between the transfer and the blood tests, John and Sherlock may never make it to Christmas. But when two sets of news collide, what will they do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 221btls is the reason this fic moves forward, i swear. She takes such good care of me.
> 
> 99.9% of facts in my story are proper facts. This time, I took a liberty (see end notes)
> 
> Thank you guys for continuing to read. I love you, and honestly, you keep me going. 
> 
> Ch 8 may be a little longer. I'm working on a Jamms!Verse Mystrade for Christmas. :D
> 
> the title for this chapter comes from this wonderful Dave Matthews Christmas Song https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fbdylEE-0e4

“Precious cargo!” John gushed as he held the Jaguar’s door open for Honey to slip into the front seat after the embryo transfer. “Sherlock will drive you home, and I’ll drive your minivan.” His smile was somewhere between angelic and soppy as he held his hand out for her keys.

Honey stared from John to the open car door and back to him, her smirk clearly implying he’d lost his mind.

Sherlock wasn’t nearly as kind as Honey. “Good God, John. Are you going to be this simpering mess for the next 9 months? I may have to send you to live with the Hudsons because I will not be able to stand you.”

His snark bit into John; his face reddened partly because he realized how foolish he’d sounded and partly because Sherlock's criticism stung. How could he not feel the same way about taking care of Honey?

John stuttered out an explanation, but it was useless. The sarcasm swallowed up his kind gesture.

They returned to Honey’s house, which thrummed with after-school chaos. John saw her sag and lean against Sherlock as the children ran to greet her with hugs and kisses and math questions. Matt called out a hello from the kitchen where he was cooking and listening to Liam kibitz from the confines of his playpen.

"Now I understand, John," Sherlock apologized to him, as he guided Honey to the arm chair. She sank into the comfortable chair, and Sherlock crouched down in front of her so he could be eye to eye. "We are taking care of you this evening. That is non-negotiable. Since tomorrow is Saturday, it makes the next part easier.”

Through half-closed eyes, Honey watched John at the dining room table, inspecting the kids’ homework and singing a kindergarten Christmas carol with them. From the kitchen, she smelled the onions and peppers sautéing for dinner, probably Matt’s specialty, beef-a-roni. Everyone was managed except her. She was exhausted and worse, frazzled and afraid because the dreams of two men hinged on something over which she had no control. What if.

Sherlock stood up in front of her, his feet planted and his hands on his hips. “Tonight, either we will take the four children to our home, leaving you and Matthew here. Or you may choose to go to our home, and we will spend the night here.”

Honey tried to argue. She thought of the amount of packing and the explanations of routines. In that moment, her shoulders sagged and she breathed out slowly. The tension and the stress and the medicines. She was so damn tired.

“Have Matt explain it to the kids. I’m exhausted. I’m going to bed,” Honey said, pulling herself out of the squishy chair and dragging herself to her bedroom.

Matt stood in the kitchen doorway holding Liam on his hip. “Y’all sure? I can do this,” he said.

After extensive negotiations, the three men agreed that leaving Liam home made more sense than packing up the portacrib, the diapers, wipes, bottles, formula, high chair, food, and other detritus even 24 hours away from home would require. Matt pinky promised that he would be on duty that night.

Overnight bags packed with the electronics, cords, plushies and possibly a change of clothes, Siobhan, Sean and Kiera pushed aside the group of adults clogging the doorway. Each wanted to be first to Uncle Sherlock’s fancy car.

Sherlock’s salsa red convertible Jaguar.

The two-seater Jaguar. His most prized possession held two people. Not three. Or even four, no matter how small three and four were.

“Oh no,” Matthew whispered, staring at the three kids’ fogging up the car’s windows and pressing their fingers onto the car’s expensive finish. “The Jag.”

“Sherlock, I never even thought,” John consoled him. He held onto Sherlock’s shoulder, rubbing his back.

“Nonsense John, it’s just a car,” Sherlock shook off John’s condolences and shooed the children from the Jag. “Besides, it won’t be this one. I finally have a reason to rid myself of that 10 year old Jetta that you still swear is safe.” The tweet-tweet of the alarm system underscored Sherlock’s words.

How could John argue? He’d be getting a new car and would still be able to drive the Jag. “Not a minivan!” John said, slamming the side door of Honey’s minivan for emphasis. Matt drove the kids the few miles to John and Sherlock’s house as they followed behind in the Jag.

By 10 that night, John and Sherlock had their first opportunity to sit and breathe.

They slumped into the couch with the remainder of two now cold pizzas that had been delivered almost 5 hours ago. They toed their shoes off and propped their feet on the coffee table, too exhausted to care about the proximity of feet to food. Sherlock handed John a beer, holding a can of Coke for himself. John swallowed a long, full swig before saying to Sherlock, “Caffeine at night? You’re never gonna sleep.”

Sherlock didn’t hesitate. “I don’t care how many of these I have,” he said, rubbing his eye, “I will fall asleep when my head hits the pillow. How does she do this every day?” He said through a yawn, stifled by his open palm.

“I don’t even know,” John said through his own yawn. “This place is a shambles. Bags, shoes, electric cords. It’s everywhere.”

When they’d first arrived, the three children left a trail of jackets, shoes, socks, and backpacks, as they shed things on their way to the television. Sherlock had laughed at their mess until John pointed out Sherlock’s jacket strewn on the back of the couch, and his dissertation papers, books and highlighters all over his chair and side table.

When the doorbell rang, John sent Sherlock to change clothes. “And clean up the mess on your chair!” John paid the pizza delivery man. As he placed the steaming boxes on the dining room table, John stopped Sean who was carrying a cup of soda to the family room.

“No food outside the dining room,” John said, setting up the pizza and plates on the table before leaving them. After a quick shower and a change of clothes, he returned to the table only to find no children, no cups, and only 1 pizza box. It didn’t take John long to find the answer; three children in various stages of slump reclined themselves in front of the television, plates on laps and dangling feet dangerously close to soda cups.

Irate, he turned to Sherlock, who’d changed into his pajama pants and a t shirt and was fully engrossed in his dissertation work, ignoring the plate of pizza on his side table where it didn’t belong. The books, papers, and highlighters that had been on the chair now clung to his torso, legs, and in one case, he’d stuck a post-it note to his shoulder.

“Sherlock.”

Sherlock couldn’t hear John; although his body sat crisscross in the arm chair, his mind was hundreds of years in the past in colonial Florida, Taking a deep breath, John tried again, before he had to shake Sherlock’s shoulder to get his attention.

“They asked if they could eat in front of the television. I didn’t see a problem,” Sherlock answered, his tone implying _well, that’s sorted_. He missed every clue in John’s body language that warned him it wasn’t at all sorted. Sherlock turned back to his book until he finally realized John still stared at him. What had he missed, then?

“Obviously you have something to say, John,” Sherlock slammed shut his book with more force than was necessary and dropped it to the side table.

“I’d told them no.” John’s blank face, his posture all screamed anger; his voice remained quiet and unnervingly calm. “You should have checked with me first.”

“Why would I ask you when they asked me?” Sherlock stuttered, a flush creeping up his neck. Even he and John rarely ate out there; the likelihood of disgusting bugs expanded exponentially once there was food in that room. “ _We_ sometimes…”

“We’re adults, Sherlock. In theory, we’re more careful.” John’s voice softened when he spoke again. “And I’m guessing you wanted to be their friend.”

Sherlock looked at the floor and frowned. He nodded once, mortified that John saw what he’d missed in his own actions.

“Don’t worry, honey. We’ll make rules together, and we’ll follow them together.” John kissed him, a small quick slide of lips, and then he stood straight, shoulders back, lips pursed, brow furrowed, pretending to be angry.

John stormed into the living room, pointing and fussing. Within minutes, the cups sat neatly on the dining room table and the pizza crusts and plates were in the trash, except for the piece that landed cheese down on the rug.

Three pair of contrite eyes looked at Sherlock who sat sad and defeated in his chair. He clenched his fist so he wouldn’t laugh at their mostly frightened faces.

Kiera spoke for the group. “We’re sorry Uncle Sherlock. We didn’t mean to get you in trouble.” She pushed out her bottom lip, which quivered as she tried to hold back tears. Sean and Siobhan were less successful at scamming him. He saw the smile in their pouts and eyes.

“I’m no pushover, you know,” Sherlock said, dodging Kiera’s pepperoni-greasy fingers that were desperate to touch his silk dressing gown with a thousand finger hugs. “We have rules here.” All three kids were truly penitent, not meeting his eyes. “And as soon as I find out what they are, I’m going to hold you to them.”

John, on his hands and knees scrubbing the sauce and grease stain out of the carpet, looked over his shoulder at those four and rolled his eyes. But Kiera’s tiny giggle sparked the full laughter of them all.

“Rule 1,” John started.

“The Doctor lies!” Sean shouted, pumping his fist in the air, thrilled to have said it before Siobhan.

“I do not!” John gasped, before he realized Sean was quoting _Doctor Who_. With a sigh he said, “Food at the Dining Room table. Or I’ll have you deleted!” His scary face didn’t stop the kids’ laughter.

“Clean up first, pajamas second, laughing and TV third,” John said, pointing them toward their overnight bags. When John looked back, Sherlock was already deep into his dissertation, with a highlighter in his hand and a pen between his lips. He shook his head, still amazed at the man’s ability to concentrate in the midst of a maelstrom.

“Uncle Sherlock?” pajama’d Kiera asked, standing in front Sherlock wondering if she should wiggle one of his long legs tucked criss-cross under him. She turned her head trying to catch his eye.

“ _Rudolph_ ’s on.” Giving up on polite, Kiera poked his knee.

Sherlock’s thoughts were fully immersed in Spanish Florida. His mind ground to a halt to process what this little person (who was not a gaucho from the 1700s) had said.

He stared at Kiera, not with the pretty blue eyes that made her feel like a happy summer day, but the scary blue eyes, like the sky before a giant thunderstorm with too much noise. “I’m sorry,” she said, turning away. “I didn’t mean to make you angry.”

“Wait, please,” he said, his voice not scary like his eyes had been. When she turned around, his pretty sky eyes were back. “I was—living in my imagination when you told me. I was really far away.”

She nodded solemnly, understanding what he meant. “Like when I play Legos, and I’m an astronaut.” Deciding to try again, she said, “ _Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer_ is on TV. Mama and Daddy always watch it with us. Will you watch it with us?”

Sherlock moved the books, the papers, the index cards, the two pens and one highlighter. The hardest thing to put away were his thoughts, holding tenaciously to history instead of the here and now. As he unfolded himself from the chair, Kiera grabbed his hand and said through her smile, “You’re gonna love this!” and dragged him to the TV room.

The smile, more than the tap on his leg. More than the request. Her smile, so full and pure, pulled him to December 8, 2015. He allowed her to place him to the corner of the couch, and he smiled as she snuggled into his lap, laying her head on his chest so she could still see the screen.

“Uncle John! Come watch with us!” the kids and Sherlock called.

Somehow, they fit 5 people on a couch meant for 3. Siobhan sat next to Sherlock and curled up against his side. John slipped into the space between her and Sean. He remembered being 14 and awkward, wanting attention but not knowing how to ask. John decided to rest his arm across the back of the couch behind Sean. If he chose to cuddle in, he could.

Before the first song was over, the 5 of them were a cuddly mess on the couch, hands and legs entwined, singing about misfits and dentists and Bumbles. Kiera fell asleep on Sherlock before Rudolph led Santa’s sleigh. In one fluid movement, he rose from the couch without jostling the sleeping girl and lowered her into John’s old bed, covering her with the chenille spread and tucking her well-loved flannel doll next to her. He kissed her head and stroked her hair. “I love you,” he whispered.

“Love you too, Daddy,” Kiera said from somewhere deep in her sleep.

Sherlock dimmed the overhead light but stood in the doorway and watched her sleep. So small. So innocent. She needed them for anything and she trusted them with everything.

The warmth in his heart bubbled into his chest. He sighed at the enormity of being a parent and the myriad ways it could go wrong, but could still feel the gentle pressure of her cheek on his chest. Her tiny breaths warming him, making him feel giddy with the love of it.

John walked up behind him with a tray of mugs filled with steaming hot chocolate and melting marshmallows. “Come back with us. _Love, Actually_ is on. And I have deliciousness.”

“I don’t even know what that means,” Sherlock said, sliding a mug off the tray before following John to the couch.

“It’s a Christmas classic. Like _A Christmas Story_ or _Elf_.”

From the blank look on Sherlock’s face neither of those titles cleared up his confusion. “A bunch of couples look for love, find love, it’s Christmas. Everyone’s happy. I think even you may recognize some of the actors in it.”

Sherlock’s head bobbed as he tried to watch the movie. Thoughts of gauchos and daddies mixed with weddings and John, naked in front of a camera. He dragged his eyes open and blinked trying to clear his vision.

“Hey,” Sean said. “That nekkid guy looks like you, Uncle John!”

John jumped up off the couch, realizing that a naked actor simulating sex on screen probably wasn’t the best for a 13 and a 14 year old to watch.

Siobhan cocked her head to the side, trying to see around John who was trying to block the screen and turn off the TV. “Oh, he really does look like you Uncle John.” She giggled at the thought of her uncle naked.

“Ok, I think it’s time for bed,” John said, fumbling with the remote and finally shutting off the television. “Or at least time to turn the TV off.”

“Something you need to tell us?” Sherlock smiled, slyly teasing John, whose face was bright red.

“No. It’s just some British actor but definitely not me. I’m going to bed. Rule 2: no one under 18 stays up later than 11, please.” John supervised turning the couch into a bed, and offered them the chance to either share the pull out bed, share the double bed Kiera slept in, or sleep on the loveseat in front of the TV.

Good nights said, lights turned down, threats made about bed time and kisses dropped on top of teenaged heads. John and Sherlock slipped between the sheets of their own bed, the comforter pulled up to their chins. Rolled toward each other, legs entwined, they talked over their day as they did every night they fell asleep together. They could hear faint dialog from the movie carrying through the silent house.

They lay holding hands. The day was too monumental, too emotional to put into words. Sherlock slid closer to John and rested his head on John’s chest.

Thump thump. Thump thump.

The beating of John’s heart. His slow, even breaths. The lingering scent of his aftershave. All lulled Sherlock to sleep.

_The raging bull stared Sherlock down. His hat, dusty from the cattle drive, flew off his head in a sudden burst of wind. How would he save John from this threat with only his lariat? The wind blew again, into his face, forcing him to close his eyes tighter when he really wanted to open them. Open them._

Sherlock pulled himself up from the dream, nose to nose with a pair of blue eyes.

“Yay! You’re awake!” Kiera said, trying to hand him a sealed box of cereal to open.

“Whu time zit?” Sherlock croaked as he shielded his nose from the waggling box of Froot Loops.

“The clock says six zero zero. Time to get up!”

 _Who in hell could be so freakin’ cheerful at six zero zero_ , Sherlock groused.

She tried to drag him out of the bed by his wrist. “Shhhh,” he whispered so he wouldn’t wake John, “I will get out of bed when the clock says six three zero.”

“’Kay,” and she skipped away, box still sealed, either to find another sucker to open it or something else to eat.

By eight zero zero the five of them were awake and dressed. John, who’d woken chipper with a smile, suggested decorating for Christmas. They’d even convinced Matt, who yelled loudly and colorfully at an 8 am Saturday phone call, to let the kids stay til the afternoon.

Sherlock set up the artificial tree while the Hudsons looked through the boxes of ornaments John brought in from the garage. They’d bought some last year and added to the ones Emma had left in storage.

“Hey it’s me!” Kiera said, looking at a photo ornament of a blond baby with bright blue eyes.

“Don’t be stupid. It says 1980 under the picture,” Siobhan said, grabbing it from her sister’s hand and leaving Kiera howling. “Uncle John, is it you?”

“Guess again,” he said, smiling as he looked over Siobhan’s shoulder. “That’s your daddy.”

“Daddy was a baby!” Kiera giggled pointing to the baby wearing only a diaper.

John convinced them to take that one home instead of putting it at the top of his and Sherlock’s tree. Let Matt deal with it.

By dinner time, when Honey, Matt and Liam came to retrieve the rest of their brood, it looked like the Christmas tubs had vomited their contents all over the living room. Every flat space held a decoration, ornament or candle. The tree stood in the formal living room, with an abundance of ornaments hung on the bottom branches where a 5 year old could reach. The strings of tinsel, delicately placed on the top branches, were wadded up and sat like silver snowballs in between branches. The multicolor light strands blinked at different speeds, occasionally hitting the same rhythm before falling out of sync. It felt more like a diner’s neon sign than a Christmas tree.

When Sherlock saw the final product, he openly cringed. If he had to have a tree, and John insisted they did, he would have preferred one, freshly cut with a few strands of understated white lights.

“Look mama! We decorated!” Siobhan said, pulling her mom further into the house to look at the living room.

“I helped with the tree!” Kiera said with a huge smile, pointing out the ornaments she’d placed so carefully on every bottom branch.

“It’s gorgeous. Y’all did a beautiful job,” Honey said, hugging her girls to her.

“Get used to it,” Matt whispered to Sherlock and John. “From the time a baby is born, your decorating scheme will be Fisher Price and Lego.”

\---

As the days wound closer to Christmas, John and Sherlock’s schedules became less hectic. The college classes that Sherlock taught for the freshmen ended more or less peacefully. The Gay Chorus’ Christmas concert won rave reviews in the Orlando newspaper. Presents were purchased, wrapped and placed under the tree.

The elephant in the room that no one talked about was the Week 4 blood test scheduled for December 21. Mindful that the Hudsons needed privacy, they tried hard to stay away. Sherlock could barely pick up his phone before John quizzed him on who he was calling and why. If John were on Facebook, Sherlock made sure he didn’t message Honey.

The days felt like months. Sherlock picked at his food, checking his phone calendar for the number of days until the 21st. John daydreamed about names and colors. Neither could talk about _what if_. _What if_ it didn’t work? What would they do? How would they proceed? Would they even try again? John’s stomach roiled at the thought that it hadn’t worked; he could only imagine Sherlock’s did, also.

“Blood test scheduled for 9 tomorrow morning!” Honey said when John answered his phone on the 20th. A nervous giggle escaped. God, she hadn’t been this impatient for a result since she was pregnant with Sean! “Y’all coming?”

The next morning, Honey wasn’t the only anxious person in the lab’s waiting room; John and Sherlock sat next to each other, texting back and forth while they waited for Honey’s name to be called. Ridiculous baby names, designed to make the other laugh. Nursery colors. Who would be Godparents was the only topic where they agreed; it would be Honey and Matt.

From the time Honey’s name was called until they were ushered out of the lab took 5 minutes. Sherlock protested, his raised voice and flailing arms almost getting them thrown out.

“What do you mean, our doctor will call us tomorrow?” he argued with the lab tech, whose bored face said she’d heard it all before. “I’m this child’s father!”

“Congratulations, sir. Call your doctor tomorrow,” she said again, as she called the next patient’s name.

“John, we’re the fathers, and they won’t tell us--” Sherlock roared. This time the tech opened the lobby door and physically nudged them out to ensure that this loud, shouty man left. He’d expected the results right there. He needed the results right now. His stomach wasn’t going to be able to stand this wait.

“Will. You. Keep. Your. Voice. Down.” John said through gritted teeth. “These people are going to think we’re some ménage à trois.” He smiled at the other patients waiting, before stepping out into the building’s hallway.

“I don’t know why I thought we’d have the results,” Honey said, biting her lips. Tears welled in her eyes at the disappointment for her and for them.

“Dimmock will call one of us tomorrow. Another day’s wait won’t kill us,” John said, his voice soft as he patted Honey’s arm.

He held Sherlock at bay until Honey had driven away. “Call Dimmock now, and if they’re gonna call Honey, conference call us in,” John told Sherlock handing him the phone. “I swear to God, another fucking day’s wait will kill me.” That is, if his head didn’t explode from the tension headache that had been brewing all day.

\---

John’s phone rang at 10 that night. Caller ID on his phone read: Orlando Fertility Clinic. His heart fell into the pit of his stomach, leaving him cold and unwilling to move. The only reason people called this late at night was bad news. Accidents. Deaths.

He stared at the phone on the side table, but couldn’t bring himself to tap the button.

“Just answer it, John,” Sherlock said, his voice quivering as he tried to keep it firm. “Ignoring it won’t change the answer.” He stood at John’s side, resting his hand on John’s back. The connection. The physical connection to love and safety, no matter what the call said.

“I didn’t think you were going to answer,” Dr. Dimmock said over the tinny speaker phone, his voice distracted by something, possibly the paperwork that Sherlock heard him shuffling in the background. “Ms. Hudson is on the phone with us, also. Apologies for time, but I was working late in the office and I didn’t want to hold back the information.”

Sherlock listened carefully for tells in the voice. Was it good news? Bad? All he heard was exhaustion and the sharp hint of frayed nerves.

 _Just say it already_ , John thought. _It didn’t work_. We pinned our hopes on this. He rubbed his teeth against his lips, holding back all words. His right hand reached behind him, searching for Sherlock’s. _It’ll be ok. We’ll be ok_.

“Looking at the results of the Beta test, your hCG level was 503. I’d say congratulations are in order, Daddies.”

Silence.

Sherlock collapsed atop John, kissing his head, his neck, his ears, where ever he could reach. When his lips brushed John’s cheek, he tasted the salty tears that coursed down John’s face.

“Dads?”

“Yes,” John whispered, his throat thick with emotion and trying not to sob.

“We’ll draw another test on the 23rd, and we’d like to see that hCG level double at least. I do want to add that 503 is a fairly high number so it’s quite possible both embryos implanted. It’s not fool proof, but you might want to brace yourself.” Dr. Dimmock waited again for a response. He knew from experience not to anticipate joy at such news; not everyone wanted two for one.

“Twins?” Honey’s voice squeaked. “Oh my God.” They heard the joy in her voice, Matt’s whoop in the background.

The doctor instructed Honey to contact the office in the morning for the paperwork for the second Beta test. “Hopefully, you’ll have a wonderful Christmas gift this year, Dads.”

When they hung up, Sherlock texted Honey two words. **Thank You**.

He took John's hands in his and eased him out of the chair. A hand on the back wasn't enough now to complete the connection. He cupped John's cheeks in his wide soft palms and kissed him deeply, pouring out his emotions.

“Let me take you to bed and show you how much I love you,” Sherlock breathed into John’s ear.

Tonight would be about love. Slow and sensual, hands and mouths explaining and re-explaining what they meant to each other, and thanking the God who brought them together. Eyes closed, lost in the longing and desire, John nodded and followed Sherlock to their bed.

\---

Doctor Dimmock wasn’t nearly as kind after the second blood draw. Sherlock and John waited all afternoon and evening, hoping for a call. They kept their cell phones in their hands or shirt pocket, not daring to put them down for fear that, if they walked away, they’d miss the doctor’s call.

By 11 pm, they had to admit to themselves that Dimmock wouldn’t be calling. They slipped under the covers, but John couldn’t bear to talk. He said good night and rolled away from Sherlock, curled into ball, making himself as small as possible. Sherlock watched him for a moment, then slid closer, spooning up behind John.

He held John and pretended he didn’t notice the tears on John’s cheeks.

\---

The Hudson’s 38th annual Christmas Eve All Day Extravaganza began at 10am with the customary unhealthy brunch of potato chips and nacho chips, several calorie laden dips (“Don’t judge, bro,” Honey said, pointing to a mountain of 7 layer taco dip on her plate. “It’s got dairy and corn and protein. It’s just like a bowl of cereal!”) and every plate of cookies and every box of candy the family had received. Matt’s parents had started the tradition when they were first married, and now he and his family followed suit. It wasn’t an open house; only their closest friends and family were invited.

The mood of the party was tense as the awaited the phone call from the doctor. John and Sherlock’s desperate wish to be parents collided with Honey’s fear she’d let them down, leaving everyone unsettled rather than merry.

“Matt will be here soon. He had an emergency meeting with the big bosses today. On Christmas Eve! Hopefully he hasn’t been fired," Honey said with a strained laugh. From her expression, John wasn’t sure she was joking.

She poured each of them a caffeine-free soda. "Sorry it's not more—hard core. We're a clean house because, you know,” she said, patting her belly.

Two blurs flew toward John and Sherlock, one shorter than the other but whose squeal  
was higher pitched.

“Kiera!!” John scooped her up and twirled her in the dining room. Her toes sliding over the top of the potato chip bowl.

“Sing me a song," she demanded when he stopped twirling her and was kissing her belly.

"I saw mommy kissing Santa Claus...”

“That’s silly,” Kiera said. “When mommy gives you her babies, you're gonna have to sing _iiiiiii saw daddy kiss-ing Sannnnnnta Claus_.” She sang off tune and very loud, but John loved her so much more than she could ever know.

John held her high in the air and wiggled her so her bell hair ties would jingle. "How did you get so smart, missy?"

She giggled and jingled. “Cuz I’m five now!” and held up this many fingers.

“Ho! Ho! Ho!” rang out as the front door opened and slammed shut.

John gasped his eyes wide with pretend shock. “Santa's here!”

“That's not Santa, silly. That’s daddy!" John dropped her to her feet and she shrieked and darted off for her dad, wrapping her arms around his thighs.

“I have amazing! Incredible! Exciting! News!” he said as he kissed each child’s cheek.

“What is it?” The Hudsons’ voices overlapped loudly as Matt tried to shush them so he could speak.

Sherlock's phone rang in the midst of the cacophony. He swiped to answer as someone was dragging him closer to Matt and his news. Sherlock pushed his finger in his other ear to hear better.

"Congratulations to you and John, Sherlock!" he heard in his right ear.

In his left ear, through the hubbub, he heard Matt announce, “We just got a huge new contract. You’re looking at the new director of the London office! I start in three weeks, and they already rented a house for us!” Matt reached into his suit jacket and pulled out a stack of plane tickets.

The voice in his right ear pulled Sherlock back to the phone conversation. "From the look of the beta numbers, I’m about 99% sure you’re having twins. Congratulations and Merry Christmas. You’re going to be dads.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hCG numbers are not actually indicative of twins (or not) in reality. in my research i saw people whose # were off the charts, and had one baby, and people whose # were relatively low and had twins. #forgiveme. lol
> 
> The surprise in the title is as much to do with the baby (babies?) as Matt's news.


	8. My Love. My Life.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock are reeling from the 2 bombshells that landed within seconds of each other on Christmas Eve (yes, Honey is pregnant and wow! Matt got a promotion/transfer to open a new office outside London). John decides that the best way to spend Christmas Day is with his best friend, and the 'benefits' aren't too bad, either.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> bless you for being so patient. For your reward, have not one, but two sex scenes. and some crack. 
> 
> Huge Thanks to Geronimoandbemagnificent who offered crits in real time and to 221btls, who had permission to slash and burn with a machete and blow torch, but was kind and nurturing. She neither slashed nor burned. Instead she planted and watered.
> 
> Yeah. it really can be 80 on Christmas Day. If you like, you go here; http://www.volusia.org/news/new-smyrna.stml and see and hear what Sherlock and John did at the beach :D

“Merry Christmas, my love,” Sherlock snuggled behind John in the large, sleep-warm bed and enclosed him in the circle of his arms.

Humming in anticipation, John canted his bottom half closer to Sherlock, twining their legs. He pulled the duvet over their heads, a world for the two of them alone. “Merry Christmas, love. I tried waiting up for you last night--” He punctuated his statement by rolling his hips and turned his head, hoping to sneak a kiss.

“I wasn’t tired last night.” Sherlock waved off the kiss, missing the overture. He pulled his arm out from under John, rolled over and sat up. “I was _thinking_. I was surprised _you_ could sleep. We have decisions to make.”

Sherlock’s body thrummed with tension and energy. This was John’s least favorite way to wake up; Sherlock had already squashed his favorite way.

He rolled toward Sherlock and smiled, his eyes still heavy with sleep. “I think the only decision we have to make is who’s going to bottom.” John palmed Sherlock’s bulge—to find there was none. “Oh. Oh. Uh.” John withdrew, mortified he’d misread the situation.

Sherlock brushed off the pass and the awkwardness. “We don’t have time for that. We have to deal with the Hudsons and what their moving does to us.”

Too old and too married to be this embarrassed, John padded to the bathroom. Might as well get the day started. “No, Sherlock,” John called through the shower water. “This is about the Hudsons and what they need to do for their family. We are only the smallest part. And we have to trust them.”

When the shower water stopped, Sherlock yelled impatiently, “Our child--”

Showered and spearminty, John pulled Sherlock up from the bed and kissed him quiet. “Our child will still be ours,” he said, stroking the soft whiskers that had grown on Sherlock’s jaw overnight. “It’s Christmas. Any plans to kidnap Honey will have to wait until at least after breakfast and gifts.”

With a tap on the behind, John sent Sherlock to the yard to pick oranges from the tree for fresh juice. Their citrus trees overflowed this year. In a matter of seconds, Sherlock filled a grocery sack, perfect for juice and a fresh snack later.

Rounding the back of the screen enclosure for the pool, Sherlock smelled the coffee brewing from inside their house. John removed the French toast from the pan and sprinkled it with powdered sugar as Sherlock squeezed their juice. He brought the glasses to the table and slid into a chair. John laced his fingers with Sherlock’s. “Merry Christmas, my love.”

John chatted easily as they ate, tucking into a second helping of French toast before Sherlock finished his first. If Sherlock talked little, he ate even less.

"What's going on?" John asked as he scraped Sherlock's breakfast into the trash

"Thinking," Sherlock waved him away, too busy to eat. To talk. To celebrate.

John kissed Sherlock's curls. He heard Sherlock sigh as he rested his forehead on John's chest. After two years, John was fluent in sighs. This one loosely translated as, why are things so complicated?  
"Change of plans," John said lifting Sherlock's chin so he could look into his eyes. "Today will be about us. Not babies. Not the Hudsons. Us."

John massaged Sherlock's shoulders squeezing out the kinks until he felt them relax. “Go take a shower." As Sherlock left John called out, "Put on comfortable clothes. It’s going to be warm today.”

Before Sherlock could respond John added, "Clothes I would think were comfortable. When you're finished, we'll go."

John checked the weather app on his phone; the high today would be 81--on Christmas Day. He swiped the screen and checked the London weather--35F and rainy. He laughed knowing the Hudsons would soon be living in that cold wet weather, a startling change from Orlando.

While Sherlock showered, John stored blankets, sand chairs, some ridiculous tabloid magazines that had found their way into 221 Baker Street, and a hamper of snacks in the trunk of the Jaguar. He searched their closets for beach hats, sunglasses, something useful for hiding from the Florida sun. Nothing. Maybe in the closet in his old room. He turned around, coming face to face with Sherlock, who smelled of citrus-woodsy soap Mycroft brings him from London and looking incredible.

"Have you found everything you need?” Sherlock asked, closing the closet door behind John. The threadbare blue jeans hugged his thighs and ass. The right knee peeked out from the worn fibers. A 2010 Jessup Arts Magnet Middle School/National History Day t-shirt, faded and shrunken, clung to his chest.

John stared, unable to form a thought, let alone a word. He was gonna say something. It was right there in his mouth, but it was gone now. He reached out, sliding his fingers down Sherlock’s chest and flat belly.

“You said comfortable clothes, correct? Are these acceptable for what you have planned?” Sherlock asked, a corner of his mouth pulling up as John simply stared.

“I uh,” John cleared his throat hoping it would jump start his brain. “I’ve never seen these before. I didn’t even know you owned jeans.” He licked his lips, his damn mouth betraying his thoughts right now.

“They’re quite old, probably from boarding school. They fit alright but they’re in disgraceful condition.” He picked at the worn spots on his thighs, and when he looked up, read the obvious desire in John's eyes.

In tight jeans and t-shirt, the hair curling in wet ringlets, Sherlock looked innocent. Young. Untested by life and misfortune. John’s heart swelled at the image of that young man he hadn't known.

“God, you’re gorgeous.” John looked breathlessly at him. He took a step closer, laying his palm on Sherlock’s abdomen. “You look...”

“Like a ragamuffin?”

“Incredible,” John breathed, caressing Sherlock’s side and resting his hand on Sherlock's ass. His eyes consumed Sherlock. “I can imagine you sneaking out of Harrow to slum it into London to go clubbing.” His cock, already half hard, thickened at the thought of the young man exploring. Hungry. Eager. Needy.

“You act like you’ve never seen me naked.” Sherlock stumbled over his words as John moved in closer, brushing his lips over the delicate shell of Sherlock's ear.

“It’s been months since I’ve seen you naked. Years. Forever,” John answered, nudging Sherlock’s jaw with his nose before taking his lips. They were soft and warm, inviting John to continue.

Sherlock pulled back enough to speak. “We made love yesterday afternoon. I know we were well and truly bare.”

“Forever,” John repeated, as he kissed Sherlock deeply once more before quirking his lips into a half smile at a naughty thought.

He slid down to his knees in front of Sherlock, holding his stare. Sherlock gasped, then moaned as John opened his jeans.

“God, John, are you going to--” He didn’t know whether to stare into John’s eyes or close his own and allow the sensations to overtake him.  
John dragged the jeans just low enough on the hips to allow him access to Sherlock's cock. John loved this, rubbing the silky, hard cock against his cheek. The scent uniquely Sherlock, the blend of shower fresh and heady arousal.

“You twat,” John laughed, deeper and thicker than usual. “These are my underwear.”

“I couldn’t very well wear silk boxers with jeans, could I?” Sherlock asked, nudging his hips closer to John. “Also, it’s a bit hot. What do you think?”

John couldn’t answer, even if his mind could move past Sherlock wearing red underpants. His tongue was busy teasing Sherlock’s erection, licking slowly to the tip, swirling over the slit before engulfing the crown with the warmth of his mouth. Sherlock arched forward, pushing in further. John greedily met the thrusts, letting Sherlock take charge.

God he loved the way it pressed against the roof of his mouth or into his cheek when Sherlock shifted his hips. The heaviness of it on his tongue. When he took the entire length into his mouth, his nose buried in the tight curls, he inhaled--enjoying the scent of the soap and the slight tang of it on the skin.

He sucked deeply as he slid his mouth up, tonguing small swirls where he could. Sherlock combed his fingers through John’s chair, craving more physical contact. He cried out each time the tongue swirled over the head of his cock, until John concentrated on that spot.

“Jesus, John. Fucking yes,” Sherlock called, holding the back of John’s head steady. ”Yes. Wish I were inside you. Fuck. Yessss.”

The filthier Sherlock’s words, the more John loved it. His own swollen cock pushed painfully against his fly. Without stopping, he removed his left hand from Sherlock’s cock and fumbled with his own jeans.

Missing the heat of John’s hand, Sherlock looked down, able to open his eyes merely a crack. John looked exquisite, his eyes closed as his head bobbed. His hand on his own erection, stroking, twisting. But it was John’s pleasure, the moans vibrating in his mouth that sent Sherlock tumbling into his orgasm. With a few final twists of his wrist, John breathed out a throaty _fuck me_ and spilled over his own fist.

Sherlock’s legs trembled, and he leaned against the wall to steady himself as he offered John a hand up. John retrieved a warm, wet washcloth and cleaned them both. “Merry Christmas,” Sherlock said as he kissed John. “I think I will be able to relax now, for whatever you have planned.” He raised an eyebrow, trying to get a response from John, who’d shared no details of his plan.

“Just get in the car,” he said, pushing Sherlock toward the garage door. “You’ll deduce it soon enough.” He flashed a brilliant smile and backed the car out of the garage.

With the Jaguar's top down, John drove toward the coast. The noon sun warmed them even as the breeze that slipped over their bare arms cooled them. John sang, his rich baritone notes soothing Sherlock, who closed his eyes and rested his head against the window, enjoying the peace. He listened to John's voice mingle with the hum of the tires on the narrow blacktop roads. As much as he could, he shut off his brain, but allowed it to replay the morning. He would have told anyone the pink on his neck and cheeks was the start of a sunburn and not from his memories.

John drove the Jag onto the hard sand of New Smyrna Beach. The sound of the waves crashed around the car; the tang of the salty air filled Sherlock’s nose as he took a deep, calming breath. Theirs was the only car parked on the beach; a lone fisherman sat in a webbed chair positioned at the water, his line cast into the surf. They could hear children’s giggles carried on the wind.

Sherlock’s smile, wide and genuine, affirmed that foregoing a traditional Christmas morning was the right decision. They unloaded the Jaguar’s trunk--the sand chairs, the colorful umbrella they’d found hidden away in the garage, the wicker basket John had packed, and a bag filled with non-electronic things to entertain them.

Before Sherlock could lower himself into the chair that sat just a few inches from the sand, John took his hand and pulled him toward the water.

“Let’s put our feet in the ocean,” John smiled, tugging on Sherlock’s arm.

Sherlock planted his feet; the air may be in the 80s but the water wouldn’t even hit 70. “You are ridiculous and will catch a cold and die and leave me a single father. I won’t have it.”

John sidled up to Sherlock and wrapped his fingers through the denim belt loops, wiggling Sherlock’s hips as much as he could with the planted feet. “C’mon, it’s romantic. On Christmas Day. Just our feet, I promise. Besides, it’s warm. 80 is warm.” He pressed his lips to Sherlock’s, slow and soft, letting the experience wash over his senses. A small breeze kicked up sand over John’s bare feet and ankles, stinging but a pleasant reminder of where they were. “Unless you’re afraid. A scaredy cat. A chicken.” John squawked to bring home the point. Sherlock wouldn’t say no to a dare.

“We shall see who’s chicken,” Sherlock said, stealing another kiss before slipping off his sneakers and socks. He rolled the cuffs of his jeans to mid-calf and chased John down to the water’s edge. “If you die of hypothermia, I will kill you,” he yelled into the wind.

John stepped into the shallow swash, letting it lap at his feet. His back was toward Sherlock, and thank God, because the water was. FUCKING. FREEZING. He stood still, not wanting to give away the shock Sherlock would experience. John shoved his hands into his pockets to stop his them from visibly trembling.

He felt the vibrations as Sherlock walked up behind him, and as another wave broke, Sherlock yelled, “Ow! It’s cold! Why didn’t you tell me!”  
John doubled over, his hands on his thighs watching Sherlock hop from foot to foot. “You’re an idiot!” Sherlock yelled, setting both feet down long enough to kick sea foam at John.  
John’s laughter stopped when dark green, slimy seaweed landed on his red t-shirt amid the foamy droplets. Without a word, he grabbed the seaweed from his chest and flung it back into the receding wave.

“Oh, God John, I’m--“ Sherlock moved closer to apologize.

“Is that how we’re gonna play it?” John asked, trying to make his voice sound angry and threatening while his eyes flashed love for his impossible husband. “Throwing slime?”

Sherlock apologized again, red faced and genuine. A wave broke and stole his attention and that was what John needed. He leapt at Sherlock to fake-wrestle him. He’d take him down. Not into the water mind you, but just maybe a strong headlock. A noogie. Yes. Rub a noogie into those beautiful, overgrown curls.

From the corner of his eye, Sherlock saw a flash of something red and sidestepped it in time for it to fly by.

John.

Who’d leapt at Sherlock.

Whom Sherlock had side stepped.

Who lay face down, plastered with cold, wet sand from forehead to toe.

Who hadn’t moved, not even when the swash washed under his knees and chest, blessedly missing his sandy face.

Sherlock didn’t move. He couldn’t move. The way—the _**only**_ way—he could prevent himself from melting into howls of laughter, risking life and limb when John stood up, was to clamp his lips together, ball his hands into fists and concentrate really, really hard on something sad. Or on trying to look sad. Like he’d lost his best friend which, Sherlock thought, was a distinct possibility at this moment.

His lips quirked up into a smile, against his will. Betrayed by the mouth.

John turned his head toward Sherlock and raised himself into a push up.

But what broke Sherlock, at risk of grievous bodily harm, was John’s new sandy beard, clumped in some spots and missing in others.

“Merry Christmas, Santa,” Sherlock gasped, unable to catch his breath.

John stared, still pushed up on straight arms. Stone faced. Enraged.

And then drying sand, without the dampness to hold it in place, drizzled off John’s chin. He sputtered, spitting sand from his lips. “It’s cold, you ass! I’m freezing!” John couldn’t stop himself from laughing at Sherlock, doubled over and bracing his hands on his thighs. When John tried to stand, he tripped over his own feet that had sunken into the sand, and wound up face down once again.

“But, you said it’s 80. It’s warm.” Sherlock clenched his lips to stop laughing, wiping the tears from his face.

“The air, you ass. Not the water. Help me!” John shook his head, raining sand over Sherlock, who still had the gall to laugh hysterically.

Sherlock dragged dripping John, shivering and rubbing his arms, back to their blanket. The sun wouldn’t be enough to warm John. “I’m assuming you didn’t count on swimming today, so no extra clothes in the trunk?” John shook his head, the laughter subsiding into chattering teeth.

From shoulder to mid-calves, Sherlock encircled John in an extra blanket. “Strip,” he ordered. When John opened his mouth to argue, Sherlock’s raised eye brow and smirk said it all. “You’ll waste more time arguing than just doing it.”

John peeled himself out of the wet clothes, using the dry back of the shirt to wipe his arms and face.

“Underpants, also,” Sherlock instructed, peeking in. When the last piece of sodden clothing had been handed over, Sherlock wrapped John tightly in the blanket. He apologized with a quick but thorough kiss, which warmed John’s soul if not his toes.

Sherlock moved their chairs out from under the umbrella and into the sun. “Sit, please.” His mummy wrap just too tight to bend easily, John dropped into his beach chair. Sherlock shimmied out of his own sweatshirt and handed it to John, who eagerly accepted it along with a cup of hot tea from the Thermos.

“Close your eyes and try to stay warm. I will take care of this,” Sherlock said, kissing the top of John’s head then immediately regretting it as he wiped sand from his lips.  
John laughed. A small pay-back. Not that he would tell Sherlock, but the entire incident was funnier than he let on. Plus wrapped up in a soft blanket as the sun warmed his bones with Sherlock waiting on him? Well worth any chill.

Lulled by the lapping waves and the faraway call of the gulls, with Sherlock moving quietly behind him, John dozed. He wiggled his toes, burrowing them into the sun-heated sand. There was nothing.

Just the warm sun and the cool breeze and the complete contentment with his life.

The gulls cawed his name. John. John.

“John, you fell asleep,” Sherlock said, handing over a pastry bag as he settled himself down into his low-slung chair. He struggled keeping the hot teas in the cardboard carrier upright as he dropped from his 6’ height to the chair a few inches from the ground.

John smiled at Sherlock’s grace and accepted a hot tea. “Thankfully, the convenience store across the street is open today.” They toasted the holiday and their families with clinked glazed donuts and raised drinks.

Content, the two passed the day watching the tide roll in and lap out. Talking about this and that. Passing nibbles back and forth. John’s shirt, which Sherlock had attached to the umbrella with large binder clips, flapped in the breeze. Sparing John any indignity, Sherlock draped the jeans and boxers over his chair and instead sat cross legged on the heavy blanket. He sat near John, not necessarily touching him; the proximity was enough, able to interlock their pinkies to rest on John’s knee, to ruffle Sherlock’s curls. To rest his head on John’s thigh.

Late in the afternoon, Sherlock watched the clouds roll in, thick and dark. He’d lived in Florida long enough to know they might bring a quick, violent rainstorm or do nothing more than shade the sun. Sherlock rummaged through the bag and found a small towel that would make a perfect pillow. He stretched out on the blanket, hoping that Father Christmas would keep rain away so he could enjoy a nap as the sun played peek-a-boo with the clouds.

John settled next to him and enveloped them in soft, warm darkness that smelled of peppermint and eucalyptus, the scents John favored for his baths. It must be the blanket that had been wrapped around his legs.

Sherlock smiled. If it were over them, then John wasn’t wearing it. He reached out to the soft skin of John’s hip and trailed his fingers down his stomach. “I rather like you naked on the beach,” Sherlock said, closing the distance between their bodies.

John purred, arching toward Sherlock’s touch _. “For Christ’s sake,”_ John thought _. “I’m 44. I should be able to go more than a few hours without craving him.”_ Sherlock looked into his eyes, held his gaze, made love to him in that look. _“Fuck it. I want what I want.”_ John gave himself over to the hypnotic blue-green eyes.

Sherlock’s fingers trailed John’s skin, circling his nipple, scraping a nail over it just to hear John’s hiss. 

“Oh, you like that, don’t you,” Sherlock whispered. Even that jarred them, too loud in their cocoon. John nodded, his eyes closed. Sherlock dragged his thumb over the hardened nub and John rolled his hips toward Sherlock. 

“God, I do,” John mewled. He caught Sherlock’s hand and brought the thumb to his mouth. He nipped at it as he sucked it in.

Sherlock dropped his voice, his whisper thick in his throat. “Look at you, desperate for it.”  

John whimpered as Sherlock’s voice, husky and velvet smooth, filled his soul. When Sherlock’s fingers traced the trail of John’s light brown hair from his navel to his cock, John captured Sherlock’s hand, pulling it toward his already painfully hard erection. He _needed_ this. Being on his knees for Sherlock earlier had been gorgeous but it hadn’t been enough. Instead of sating him, it made him want Sherlock more. John wore his desire on his face and in his movements.

Sherlock smiled, knowing what John wanted, but refused to provide it. He brought his hand back up, pushing John’s hair out of his eyes.  John growled, trying to take charge. He pushed against Sherlock’s thigh, rolling his hips. 

“Shhh, I’ll take care of you,” Sherlock said. “I promise.” He pressed his hand onto John’s hip, to slow them, to still the movement. John knew Sherlock would be brilliant. He tried to breathe deeply, but he was too ragged, too raw.

“Do you want this?” Sherlock asked, wrapping his fist too loosely around John’s cock, not providing enough friction. John whimpered a response. “Or, this.” Sherlock twisted his wrist at the crown, just like John loved it, and kissed him without hurry, a kiss that said I desire you. John parted his lips and Sherlock followed, teasing John’s tongue, flicking, swirling, circling. Reminding John what his mouth could do.

The heated match of lips answered the question. Without realizing, he’d grasped John more firmly, stroking and twisting over the already wet crown, as John thrust again and again.

Soon, too soon. 

“Wait,” John panted, stopping his hips and grabbing Sherlock’s wrist. He pressed his palm against Sherlock’s cock, thick and pushing at the fabric of his jeans. “Help me take your pants off.” 

Sherlock unzipped his jeans, and John pulled them down Sherlock’s thighs, low enough to slot their cocks together. He brought Sherlock’s hand to his mouth and dragged his tongue across the palm. John guided Sherlock’s hand around their cocks and placed his own atop Sherlock’s. They moved together, slower, more deliberately, tenderness and warmth replacing the frenzied movement. 

John cupped Sherlock’s jaw. “God, I love you. You are so fucking gorgeous.” He punctuated his words with a thrust, each hotter than the one before. “I want you so much. Can I fuck you? Can we do that here?” he panted. 

“We'll make quite a show for any people strolling on the beach," Sherlock warned. Even as his tone advised against it he felt his balls tighten at the thought. 

“Will you be okay without lube?" John asked, in between nips to Sherlock's neck.

This time Sherlock growled as he rocked his ass against John. "Use spit and fuck me. I won't break."

Those words at that moment brought John to the edge. He slicked his cock and brushed the head over Sherlock's opening once, twice, until he couldn't tease him any longer. He pushed in and waited--knowing that saliva wasn't as comfortable as lube. Sherlock snarled, low and dangerous, until John pulled out and slammed back in.

_Yes. Yes. Godddddddyes._

He thrust in trying to find the right angle, the one that would make Sherlock say his name like a holy and blessed thing. He wrapped his right arm around Sherlock, hugging him, his palm resting above Sherlock's heart. He felt it race, the lub-dub singing "Love. You. Love. You. Love. You." In time with John's hips.

The love song was too much for John's control. As his hips stuttered and he tumbled over the edge, he sang the song to Sherlock of love and life and future. "Love. You. Love. You. "  
Almost there with John, Sherlock stroked his cock until he could feel himself at the very edge, crashing as he arched his neck and called out John’s name. He purred as John snuggled close, nuzzling behind his ear.

"This started out as me making love to you," Sherlock sighed, eyes closed and trying not to doze. "How did it get turned around?"

"There's not me or you," John explained, but was certain he fell asleep several times during the sentence. "There's only us."

The air under the blanket was heavy with sweat and sex. Sherlock pulled it down to his chin.

"John!" With one sharp kick to John's shin, Sherlock grabbed his full attention. "We aren't alone."

John cracked an eyelid and over Sherlock's shoulder saw another couple, two young men who were obviously together. They'd set up a Christmas dinner picnic next to them. The men smiled and waved; Sherlock pulled the cover back over their heads.

"Mortified," John said but when Sherlock snickered like a teenage boy, John joined him laughing until their sides hurt.

While John held the blanket over them again, Sherlock wiggled back into his jeans. Getting the waist over his ass was exponentially more difficult lying on the hard sand than it had been standing in his room at home.

At the same time they both realized John only had the jacket Sherlock had handed him earlier. No pants. They laughed even harder.

Finally with John in a blanket skirt and Sherlock's t-shirt hanging low enough to hide his own unzipped fly, they returned their bags and chairs to the car.

"Just in time," Sherlock said. The dense clouds delivered on their promise; the raindrops splashed, large and loud, on the roof of the Jaguar as they headed the car home.

They drove in easy silence, Christmas songs providing a subtle soundtrack to their journey. John watched Sherlock drive, his profile so beautiful. God, he loved this man. More than anyone he’d ever known. More than he ever thought he could love someone. This cranky, under-fed, under-rested, brilliant, sexy, gorgeous man was his. Forever.

“I love you.” John’s grin underscored his words.

Sherlock glanced over, unsure if John were teasing, but his smile said everything. “You’re ridiculous,” Sherlock answered, knowing John would translate the words. His eyes slid to John’s legs, still in the blanket skirt. “I think your lack of appropriate clothing has scrambled your funny little brain.”

He pulled into a McDonald’s ( **Open Christmas Day! 24 hours!** ), and walked around the car to help John stand. He awkwardly brought his legs from the car without losing his covering. Sherlock grabbed the mostly dry clothes from the trunk, and while John changed in the bathroom, Sherlock ordered Christmas dinner.

Arms wrapped around Sherlock from behind. John felt so good, so right pressed against him, the other half of himself. _No_ , Sherlock thought. _Not the other half. He doesn’t complete me; I don’t complete him. We complement each other, creating something new and better._

He turned around and kissed John. A simple slide of lips this time. “I love you, too,” he whispered in John’s ear.

The only customers at dinner time, John and Sherlock had their choice of tables. Tucked away in a corner booth with a pile of hot, salty French fries between them, John opened his mouth to speak, but closed it before he said anything. Did he want to broach this now?

Sherlock had stopped picking at the pile of fries to watch John. “Go ahead.”

With a sigh, John spoke. “I know you’re worried about Honey leaving. I am too. This isn’t how I wanted it to be, but it is what it is. We can’t change it.” He pulled at the roll from his hamburger, rolling the bit of bread between his fingertips. “You were on the phone with the doctor when Matt told them. Honey was blindsided. I’m telling you, she had no idea.”

Sherlock nodded; in their shock, they’d decided to leave almost immediately rather than say something impolitic about irresponsible planning and thinking about others.

“They’ll make it right,” John added. “Maybe we can fly over once a month, or your Mum can visit, or Siobhan can make us a video diary.” He pulled his lips into a tight line. He wouldn’t cry over not seeing their child grow inside Honey, not watching it twist and stretch. Not here. Not now.

Sherlock slid his hand across the table and intertwined their fingers. With a small squeeze he said, “Let’s go see the Hudsons. We all want the same thing. Maybe we can come up with a plan.” John nodded and trashed the remaining food; he couldn’t eat anyway. It felt like a greasy weight in his stomach.

Kiera’s face was painted with chocolate syrup and dotted with whipped cream when she answered the door. Over her shoulder she hollered “It’s Unka Sherlock and Unka John!” Before they were caught up in hugs, Kiera told them, “Bite me!”

“Kiera Elizabeth! _What_ did you say?” Honey’s eyes were wide in shock as she held the door open.

“Sean said I’m a sundae, and I should tell people to bite me!” She ran off to find her big brother, who’d obviously done her wrong even if she didn’t understand how.

“Kiera! I’ll take care of this. Sean Matthew Hudson!”

Sean appeared, innocent and childlike, smiling at his mother.

“It’s not going to work, Sean,” Matthew said from his armchair. “She already knows. Throw yourself on the mercy of the court. It’s the only way.”

Every time he and Sherlock visited the Hudsons, John knew their decision to start a family was perfect. He’d seen this family in shouting matches, yelling at each other. Seen the parents disciplining the children. Heard the whining and complaining. But at the end of the day, the love they shared was more important than any fuss. Right now, the four were piled atop each other on the rug, teasing and tickling and laughing.

“Hey, Daddies,” Honey said hugging John and Sherlock. “Merry Christmas. We thought y’all might have stopped over earlier today.”

“We spent the day at the beach,” Sherlock said. Raising an eyebrow, he added, “I’ve been informed that I must give your family _space_ and not _suffocate_ you with attention.” His smirk and air quotes around _space_ and _suffocate_ illustrated his opinion of Mycroft’s rules.

Honey led them to the table, pouring mugs of tea and handing them cake without asking. “We’re glad you’re here. We need to talk about England.”

Matt stirred his coffee, not looking up from the mug. “We were awake most of last night talking about the move.” John watched the spoon circle the mug, afraid to listen. What little he’d eaten at McDonald’s roiled in his stomach.

“I’m going to stay here,” Honey interrupted. “Emma will take a leave of absence from JAMMS, and she’ll go with them.”

Sherlock watched Honey as she spoke. Her eyes seemed glassy; was she holding back tears? But her smile seemed genuine.

“But--“ John had a thousand questions.

“No buts,” Honey said. Her hand cradled her still-flat belly. “This baby is yours. You need to see him or her grow. It’s the miracle. It’s yours.” She swallowed hard. “It’s not going to be easy being separated from mine, and I’m sure I’ll be a total bitch, but it’s only a few months.”

Out of the corner of his eye, John saw Sherlock hold his breath and then release his desperate fears in a slow, steady exhale. He squeezed Sherlock’s hand, thinking, “Same.”

When he could speak without his voice betraying his emotion, Sherlock said, “We will fly you there as often as your doctor says you can, and when you can’t fly, we’ll bring them here.”

“We’ll make it work,” Matthew added. “We all knew this baby would require cooperation from everyone. Besides, my mother is over the moon. She’s looking forward to spoiling these kids and seeing Europe.”

“I’m certain Mummy will also insist on being involved,” Sherlock said, elated and giddy.

“Anything we can do--” John offered.

“Funny you should say that,” Honey laughed, as she cleared their empty plates. “Be here 8 o’clock tomorrow morning. We’re packing up the things they’ll take and shipping it to your Mum’s.”

“I told Greg about our move,” Matt added. “He said he’d mention it to Mycroft. Maybe he’d--”

John’s phone pinged with a new message. He glanced at it and shook his head. “How does he **_do_** this? Is this place bugged?”

He read the text from Mycroft aloud:

_“Please tell Matthew that I have located a house I believe will be suitable. He will find further details in his email.”_

“Why does he text you?” Sherlock asked, a note of petulance in his voice.

“Because you never return his texts,” John answered with a chuckle.

_Ping._

_“Please inform my brother if he answered my texts, I would message him instead of bothering you.”_

Before John and Sherlock could leave, Liam toddled over to them, unsure on his feet but so proud of his accomplishment. He dragged a Christmas gift bag behind him. With Siobhan’s prodding, he handed it to Sherlock. “Da!” which loosely translated meant 'here', or 'gift', or possibly, judging from the stench, 'change my diaper now'.

They each unwrapped their gifts that had been tucked into the bag. Dad 1 and Dad 2 shirts, like the Things from Cat in the Hat.

“They’re perfect,” John said, hugging Honey tight. He slipped his hand down to her stomach and pressed it gently. “Love you.”

She hugged him tighter.

“I can’t help but think this is a metaphor for the chaos you suspect our home will be,” Sherlock chuckled as Honey hugged him, too. “I love it. Thank you.’

That night they snuggled together in bed, Sherlock’s head on John’s shoulder. “You are a difficult man to find gifts for,” John said, as he reached over to his bedside table drawer. “May I see your phone?”

Sherlock handed it over, his forehead wrinkled in confusion. With a few tips and taps of his fingers, John handed it back along with an envelope. No less confused, Sherlock pulled up the glued flap and unfolded a piece of sheet music.

" _My Love, My Life_ ,” Sherlock read from the music. “Words and Music by John H. Watson.”

“It’s—I wrote it for you,” John hesitated. “It’s on your phone, too.”

Sherlock unlocked his phone and pressed play. John’s voice, melody and overlaid harmonies, filled their bedroom.

_I met you_  
_When I didn’t want to._  
_I wasn’t ready to love again_  
_And you didn’t want_  
_More than a friend._

_You asked me questions,_  
_I didn’t want to answer._  
_You asked me questions_  
_And I didn’t know why._  
_But you gave me answers_  
_That opened up my mind._

_You showed me the truth in your eyes._

_A look, a touch_  
_Shared. Dared._  
_And I knew then that you were everything._  
_My love. My life._  
_No matter if we were scared._

_You asked me questions_  
_I didn’t want to answer._  
_You asked me questions,_  
_And I didn’t know why._  
_But you offered me answers_  
_That opened up my eyes._

_You showed me the truth_  
_The truth without lies._  
_You showed me the truth_  
The truth in your eyes.

“No one has ever written me a song before,” Sherlock said, when he found his voice. “I love it.”

“If you give your permission, then the Gay Chorus will perform it at our April concert,” John explained. “That’s the second part of your gift. But only if you say yes.”

Sherlock kissed John. The only answer he had.

Sherlock slipped out of bed, and when he returned, he held a small box gift wrapped in thick expensive paper topped with a silver bow.

"I know it's not a television or a new car..." John quipped, looking at the size of the box and turning it around in his hands.

"Oh did you want one? I thought we could..."

"Baby, I'm joking!" John removed the bow and tapped it onto his t-shirt as a festive decoration. When he shook the box, the gift rattled solidly. "Hmmm."

"Would it not expedite the process to actually unwrap it?" Sherlock laughed, holding himself back from ripping the paper off the package.

John ended the torture by tearing the wrapping, only to find a non-descript cardboard box. Once he split the tape on the box, pushed through the balled tissue paper, found a smaller box and opened that did he find his actual gift, wrapped in the same paper as he started with.

“It’s like gift-ception,” John joked, holding the rectangular item. Odds were, from its shape and feel, it was a paperback book.

Sherlock held his breath as John slit the tape with his thumbnail.

“ _Of Crackers and Cowboys: Florida Before 1900_ ,” John gasped. “By Sherlock Holmes.” He looked from the book to Sherlock and back again. “Oh my God, baby. A book!” He grabbed Sherlock’s arm and pointed to the cover.

Sherlock slipped it from John’s hand and flipped to the dedication page. He folded the cover back and handed the open book to John.

A slow smile spread across John’s face as he read, “For my love, the person who showed me what my life could be.” He put the book on the bed and cradled Sherlock’s face gently between his hands. 

John rested his forehead against Sherlock’s, intimately close, breathing the same air.

“I know that everything I did in my life was to bring me here to be with you. I will always believe that.” John ghosted his lips over Sherlock’s as he stroked his face tenderly. Sherlock nodded, because no words were necessary.

They slid down under the duvet, curved together, legs tangled and fingers entwined.

Somewhere in their dreams that night, they both sang, _“And I knew then that you were everything. My love. My life.”_  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can see the shirts Honey bought for Dad 1 and Dad 2 right here: http://www.teesforyourfamily.com/designs/dad-1-2/


	9. Leaving on a Jet Plane

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Matt and the kids leave for England in a devastating departure. And it's up to John and Sherlock to watch over Honey.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you 221btls for keeping me true to my voice, and for showering me with pretty words.  
> thank you to gerinomoandbemagnificent for being the first listener and saying, just. no. fix it. NOW.

_Moving day._

_No. Not moving day. Leaving day._

_Leaving me_ day.

Honey gulped back a distraught sob as she stood in the airport with the three children crowding her, hugging her until she couldn’t breathe. They kissed her ‘one more time’ again and again before their dad could drag them through the security gate for their flight to England. For Matthew’s shiny new job. And their new home.

And without her.

As she stood there, with life swirling around her in slow-motion, Honey felt the cracks in her heart, like a window pierced by a pebble. Composed for now but knowing one wrong word, one wrong touch would send fractures snaking out until she shattered there on the dirty, frayed carpet in International Departures.

_Why did you agree to let them go without you? They need you. Lunches and laundry and love. Who’ll love them?_ The devil on her shoulder taunted.

The angels on her shoulder, one for each child and her husband, answered without hesitation. _They’ll be well. Sherlock’s parents will help. Matthew’s mom. And this is for John and Sherlock’s baby._

“You have to go,” Honey said, taking each child’s face in her hands and peppering them with kisses. “We need you to be strong. Plus, I’ll be there before you can even miss me.” She swallowed hard again, trying to hold her emotions at bay and barely succeeding.

Later, when she was alone in the too empty, too silent house, she’d think about them and let the tears come.

Matt struggled to keep Liam in one arm and yank Kiera away with his other hand; wrestling with those two, he couldn't even hug Honey. His eyes stung with tears but the moments were wrenching enough without him giving into his emotions. So, he pretended that Liam's windmill fist to his nose caused the tears.

This wasn’t how Matthew wanted to leave her, the smell of Liam’s dirty diaper in his nose as the baby squirmed over his shoulder, Kiera asking why everyone was crying and squalling because she didn’t understand.

Matthew handed Liam to Emma and pulled Kiera and Sean into the mass of people trying to push through security, but Sean glared at him and jerked away, returning to his Mom.

Mascara and tears painted lines on Siobhan’s face. "We'll Skype you every day, Mama. Show us the baby every day,” she said, throwing her arms around her mama’s neck.

“I will, baby. I will.” Honey’s voice cracked as she edged Siobhan and Sean closer to where Matthew and Emma stood. “But you have to go now. Daddy and Gram are waiting. You have to make the plane.”

“Mama, I wanna stay with you.” Siobhan dragged her fist across the mess on her face, trying to wipe it away but making it worse. “I can help you, and take care of you and cook and do the laundry…”

Siobhan’s voice, filled with anguish, broke John’s spirit. “Honey, if you need to go…” he said, as Honey gripped his hand with the vise of hers.

The post-holiday travelers, eager to return to their homes and lives, crowded them, bumping into them, pushing and pressing against them. Overwhelmed by the mingled scents of perfumes, by people ripe from travelling too long without showers, and by the demand of her family’s needs, Honey swayed and felt her knees almost buckle.

_Maybe the angels were wrong_ , she thought desperately. She could go. She could tell John and Sherlock this was more than she’d signed on for, to be apart from her own babies for 9 months. Separated from her love and her life. How would she breathe without Matthew? She already felt the pressure in her chest, panic nipping at the edge of her resolve. Weak kneed and queasy. This was too much to ask from anyone.

_Decide, damn it._

She drew in a ragged breath and held it. “No,” she whispered to John. Honey straightened her posture and looked her daughter in the eyes

“Siobhan Fiona. It is time for you to go. Your father is waiting.” Honey’s voice was steely; Siobhan understood this side of her mother. This was the ‘ _do your homework now, young lady, or no computer time’_ Mom. The _‘if you don’t clean your room right now…’_ Mom. Siobhan nodded, swallowed hard and offered a weak but genuine smile.

Honey wrapped her arms around Siobhan and kissed her forehead. She whispered, “Please take care of Sean. He’s going to need your help to make friends.” Siobhan’s eyelashes fluttered against Honey’s cheek as she blinked her answer. “I love you tons.”

“Me too, Mama.” With one more kiss, Siobhan walked toward the conveyor belt, putting her shoes and purse in the plastic bucket before she passed through the metal detector.

Honey stood on her tiptoes and kissed Sean on his forehead. “Be kind to Siobhan. She’s going to need you. Watch over her, please.” He nodded and threw a hug at Honey and walked as quickly as he could toward Security, not looking back. She saw his shoulders wilt, and her stomach swirled again. She had to let them go, though.

“Grandmother and Grandfather will meet you at the airport, and you can iMessage me when you land. I love you.” Honey called across the belts and stanchions. She blew kisses but closed her eyes to hold back her tears. And so she couldn’t see them leave her.

Large, soft hands cupped Honey’s face; she’d know those hands anywhere. Lips kissed the corner of her eyes, brushing away her tears. She’d know those lips anywhere. She’d kissed them for 16 years.

“Matthew.”

“I couldn’t leave without saying a proper goodbye,” he said, nuzzling the soft skin behind her ear with his nose and lips. “I had to push my way past the TSA lady. I may be arrested.”

“I’ll visit you in jail,” she breathed. “I’ll visit you anywhere.”

He felt her lips curve against his cheek as her tears wet his face. “I love you. I’ll be back to visit as soon as I can.” He stroked small circles on her stomach. “You know how fucking hot you are when you’re pregnant.”

Honey huffed out a laugh and traced her fingertips across his lips. “Go,” she said before she kissed him, a gentle slide of lips. “Go before I have you right here.”

Matthew cupped her chin, and she closed her eyes as they kissed, memorizing the moment, the feel of his skin against hers.

“I love you,” she said. They weren’t enough, but they were the only three words she had.

“I know.” Matthew smiled and walked back through the opening that the female TSA officer created between the stanchions. Yet another perk of Mycroft’s influence.

Honey laughed through her tears as she watched him leave. “Did you just? _Star Wars_? Really?”

“Goodbye, Princess,” Matt called over his shoulder as he scooped up Liam in his left arm and followed his other children and his mother toward the monorail that would take them to their gate.

“Be good!” Honey called after them. “Message me when you land. I love you.” She blew kisses, but only giggling Liam, looking over his father’s shoulder, saw her and blew them back. The rest of her family walked on, not hearing her.

Once she could no longer see them through the crowds, not her love holding their baby or her older two holding Kiera’s hands keeping her safe, Honey sagged, the steel gone replaced by grief. John caught her and led her to a bench.

“Oh God, I’m going to be sick.”

John absolutely believed her. She had no color; each freckle stood out against the pale skin.

“Put your head down between your knees,” he told Honey as he stroked her back. “Breathe in. And now out, slowly. In. Out.” He sent Sherlock to find ginger ale or a bottle of water while he rubbed her back and reminded her to breathe.

“Do you think you can sit up?” John asked, his voice soothing and patient. Honey nodded and slowly righted herself, all the while breathing to John’s cadence of in-hold it-out.

Sherlock returned with a bottled water and offered it to Honey, who drank in small sips. Color returned as the water quelled her upset stomach.

“Can we just go home?” Honey asked, her voice small and miserable. John extended his hand and helped her stand, watching that she was steady on her feet.

While they waited on the sidewalk for Sherlock to return with the car, John took advantage of their privacy. “Look, if this is the wrong decision for you, you can change your mind.”

Suggesting that Honey join her family gouged his soul. But he couldn’t imagine watching his family leave him behind. How did she do that? And for him and Sherlock.

“I miss them.” Honey said, the taxi horns and rumble of idling cars echoed in the enclosed pick-up area, hiding the crack of her voice, the raw ache. “I miss them so much, it feels like someone ripped out my heart. But Matthew and I agreed that these 9 months belong to you and Sherlock.” She squeezed his hand. “I just didn’t expect it to be so physically painful. My stomach is a mess.” She wrinkled her nose at the odor of the car exhaust that filled the tunnel and saturated her clothes.

“Are you hungry? Did you have breakfast?” John helped Honey into the passenger seat of her minivan before he climbed into the back.

Honey shook her head. “Too busy getting everyone out the door.” Her stomach’s growl punctuated her sentence.

“There’s your answer,” Sherlock chimed in, finding John in the rear view mirror. “Shall we stop for something? We’ll have our choice between breakfast and lunch.”

“I didn’t even realize how hungry I was til you said something.” Honey rested her head against the seat and looked out the window, listening to the comforting sounds of the music from the radio and her two friends bickering. It took most of the 45 minute drive, but the tension ebbed from her shoulders.

A sign on the side of the highway identified several restaurants at the next exit.

Honey sat up. “Oh! Can we get off here? I need that!” She pointed to the road sign.

“The Waffle House?” Sherlock asked, thinking that waffles did sound good to his own rumbling stomach.

“No! Fried chicken. Oh my god, Pop’s has the best fried chicken. Oh and dirty rice! Biscuits!” She lit up with each food she mentioned. “Turn here!” She all but wrenched the steering wheel to the right toward the exit.

“Apparently, the cravings portion of pregnancy has kicked in,” Sherlock observed dryly.  
John giggled from the back seat. Fried chicken did sound pretty good right now after the emotionally draining morning.

From the exit to the parking lot, Honey told stories of dating Matt and meeting at Pop’s because it was close to school and all they could afford.

“I’m surprised your wedding reception wasn’t held at one.” Sherlock’s lips tried to hide the laughter in his sarcasm.

She smacked his arm playfully. “Don’t laugh at me, Mr. Posh.” She brushed the spot she’d tapped and mumbled, “They don’t cater.”

John opened her car door for her, and before she could even step out of the minivan, Honey’s hand flew to cover her nose and mouth.

“Oh God, what is that horrible smell?” Honey paled as she tried to breathe through her mouth.

John and Sherlock exchanged glances over her head. It smelled like it always did: disgustingly greasy.

Honey pulled the door shut and motioned for them to join her in the car.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and handed John the keys to Honey’s minivan. If anyone were tactful enough to figure out what the fuck was going on, it would be John.

When John slid into the driver’s seat, Honey gagged. “Shut the damn door.”

He tried not to laugh. This was bordering on absurd now. One minute Pop’s was the greatest thing since sliced white bread, and then next it was sludge. Well, to be fair, it was always sludge, but…

As the car pulled out of the parking lot and the smell faded, Honey took a deep, cleansing breath. “Well, I’m officially pregnant.”

Sherlock snorted. “Luckily, we didn’t have advanced medical technology to tell us before this.”

“Shut up you idiot,” Honey smiled faintly, the color not fully returned. “I’d forgotten what this was like. It hasn’t happened since I was pregnant the first time.”

Waves of hormones had already begun to transform her body, turning tastes and smells that she used to love rancid.

“God, I haven’t had a cup of coffee in 15 years. Used to live on it, but when I was pregnant with Sean, it made me gag, and I can’t stand the taste anymore.”

The thought registered. “Oh no!” Honey slumped melodramatically against the car door. “Good bye, fried chicken.” With a side eye, she looked at John who was enjoying her performance.

“I see where Siobhan got her acting skills,” John laughed.

Always pragmatic, Sherlock added, “Well, it will keep your weight down. You really did gain an unhealthy amount with Liam.”

He didn’t duck fast enough for the wadded up napkin that Honey flung at his head.

“Sherlock, my love. Please. Please. Never say any such thing again.” John bit his lips so he wouldn’t laugh. “Like you said on the beach, I really don’t want to be a single parent. And she’ll kill you.”

Honey glared over her shoulder and growled, “I will, too. One finger, mister. That’s all it would take.”

That sent John over the edge. His giggle infected the other two, and Sherlock used the balled up napkin ammunition to wipe his eyes.

“Do you think your oh-so-sensitive stomach tolerate McDonald’s?” Sherlock asked, as they drew closer to the one near their home. He looked innocent, but Honey knew Sherlock was anything but.

Without any more napkins available, Honey settled for sticking her tongue out at Sherlock.

“So mature, Mrs. Hudson.” Sherlock responded by crossing his eyes and sticking his tongue out.

“I know you are, but what am I?” she mimicked him.

“For the love of God, children. Don’t make me turn the car around.” John threatened from behind the wheel. “You both are impossible.”

“She started it,” Sherlock said before John shut him down.

Honey’s stomach could indeed tolerate McDonald’s. “Oh! Can I have some Big Mac sauce for my nuggets?” she asked the confused cashier.

“I don’t think I’ve ever had anyone ask for it for their chicken nuggets,” the manager said, handing over a small cup with a dollop of sauce in it.

Honey looked in the cup and raised an eyebrow. “If I need more, would I be able to get more?”

The manager nodded, although her raised eyebrow indicated she thought she’d given more than enough for 10 nuggets.

John smiled and said, “She’s pregnant.” Sherlock nodded, not offering any of the comments that were pinging in his head.

The manager smiled and said, “Ma’am, if you need more, y’all come find me.” Honey returned her grin. She’d made a friend for life. Or at least 9 months.

Yes, her stomach could tolerate McDonalds. Her 10 nuggets. The Big Mac sauce. A second helping of the sauce. Large fries and the rest of Sherlock’s fries that she used to scoop up the remaining Big Mac sauce.

“Good Lord, woman,” Sherlock started, but John ground his heel into the toes of Sherlock’s polished wingtips.

Honey stuck her tongue out again, this time making sure she had partially chewed French fries in her mouth. She dissolved into laughter.

“I haven’t had this much fun in years,” Honey said, piling her garbage on the tray and taking it to the trash can.

“Stop antagonizing her,” John hissed. Before Sherlock could respond, Honey put her hand on Sherlock’s shoulder.

“So, boys. What are we gonna do tonight?” Honey’s eyes sparkled at the thought of the havoc she could create on Baker Street.

“Unfortunately, my classes start this week, and I must prepare my lectures,” Sherlock answered, releasing a sigh of relief. This Honey was exhausting.

Honey’s smile dimmed several watts, but she turned to John. “Just you and me, then?”

“I have to work tonight. We always have Wednesday night rehearsals.” John hugged her and said, “Tomorrow night, definitely.”

“Oh.” Alone was going to be much more…alone. All that big house and no one to share it with. Her stomach flipped and twisted as she thought about leaving.

“Will you both be able to go to the doctor with me Friday morning? For the first ultrasound?”

John and Sherlock stared, mouths agape.

“I know I told you,” she stuttered. “Oh. Maybe in the hubbub of moving, I forgot.” She pinked with embarrassment. “Well, get used to it. The memory thing isn’t gonna get better.”

The two men exchanged glances, more than a little confused and scared. What had they gotten themselves into?

In the car on the way Baker Street, she explained the realities of pregnancy brain. “You’re not allowed to laugh at me when I can’t remember stuff, like why I went into a room or where I left something. Also, it’s gonna be like I have my own personal furnace. Like right now, is anyone else hot?”

She fanned herself with her shirt, billowing it at the neckline. “Cuz, it’s really hot in here.”

“Are you ok?” John asked, as he pulled into the Baker Street driveway. Honey’s face was as pale as it had been at the airport. “You’re coming inside with us until this passes.”

Honey nodded; her head felt like it was moving through molasses. Sherlock opened the front passenger door for her and offered her a hand out of the minivan.

Honey barely said “Oh God,” before Sherlock’s bespoke suit pants and wingtips were covered in her McDonald’s breakfast.

Sherlock stood still. Silent. Once he knew Honey was alright, he said, “What is it with you people vomiting on my driveway? I have a perfectly fine bathroom inside.”

Any composure Honey had maintained after separating from her family at the airport vanished. “Ohmygod, I’m so sorry. I don’t…I’ve never…I’ll clean them of course and…” She dissolved into tears, crying for Sherlock’s clothes and her absent children and the loss of her dignity.

Sherlock’s hand hovered over her trembling shoulder. “Honey, it’s…”

John came around the car and took charge. “Baby, go get cleaned up,” he said to Sherlock, sending him into the house. “We’ll take care of the driveway later.” He turned to Honey, who wouldn’t look him in the eyes. John stroked her back and whispered silly things to her until Honey’s sobs subsided to small, quiet gulps of air.

“I don’t know why…” Honey said as she stepped around the mess on the driveway.

“It’s been a long, emotional day,” John led her to the guest bathroom where she could tidy herself. “I’ll get you clean shirt.” He offered her an old t-shirt and took her soiled top to the laundry room on his way to the garage. Better to hose the driveway now.

Honey rested on the couch, stretched out. She threw her arm over her eyes to shield them from the light that seemed too bright. John heard the shower running; Sherlock should be almost done, and then John would jump in.

Sherlock and John moved quietly through the remainder of their morning as Honey slept on the couch. It wasn’t until they heard the flush from the toilet in the master bathroom that either knew Honey was awake.

She was pale—too pale—except for the red splotches high on her cheekbones. She smiled wanly, standing in the kitchen door. “I think maybe I’m sick.”

“Food poisoning?” John asked, feeling her forehead for a temperature.

“Unlikely, John,” Sherlock said, assessing Honey’s appearance and feeling her forehead with his lips. “Without a fever, it’s more likely general stress and exhaustion. Emotional letdown.”

“Then she needs a cup of tea,” John said, already filling the kettle. He handed her the mug of tea and brought her back to the couch. Her color returned slowly, the tea steadying her stomach.

“I’m so sorry about your suit, Sherlock,” Honey began before John cut her off.

“And what did you mean by _you people vomiting on my driveway_?” John raised an eyebrow to Sherlock, legs folded up under himself in his favorite chair. “I’ve never thrown up on your…our…driveway.”

Sherlock chuckled a deep, evil laugh. John’s stomach clenched as a line from Star Wars flashed through his mind: “I’ve got a really bad feeling about this.”

Sherlock lit up, and he rearranged himself in his chair to tell Honey the story of the evening they met.

“John had just been hired at JAMMS, and I stumbled upon him.” Sherlock left out how his heart had beaten faster and his throat didn’t quite work in the music room that afternoon. “I took pity on him and, since he obviously had no friends in town, invited him to dinner.”

“I only went with him so I could drive the Jaguar,” John interrupted, laughing. He left out how he wanted to know more, to learn more about this ridiculous man. “I wasn’t even hungry.”

Sherlock’s half smile and raised eye brow made Honey giggle. She drank her tea as she listened.

“Perhaps not,” Sherlock continued. “But you drank an entire bottle of wine by yourself. You called me Sherl. Found rhyming words for puke. Told me why your engagement ended. And then proceeded to open your car door in time to, shall we say, spew on the driveway and in the flower bed.”

Honey laughed until she couldn’t breathe. “Sherl?!”

“Delete that piece of information right now….Honoria…” Sherlock smirked, threatening secret for secret.

John laughed but denied the events of that first night. “The next morning when I woke up here, that idiot lied to me and said I’d agreed to move in. It was hours before he told me the truth.”

“I only hastened the inevitable,” Sherlock sniffed and looked away. “You needed a place to live; I had extra rooms. If I had known you had designs on my bed…”

John’s laughter turned softer, more loving. “…would you have invited me in sooner?”

Pink crept up Sherlock’s cheeks as he nodded. John smiled and blinked once as he looked into Sherlock’s eyes (their shorthand for I love you).

“Y’all make me want to barf,” Honey said, stretching and yawning. Seeing their worry, she quickly added, “Because y’all are so stinkin’ adorable.”

“You and Matt are just as bad. Your kids told Greg and Mycroft in London that they were as much in love as their parents were,” John said, rubbing Honey’s feet that had found their way into his lap. “And that was before they were even dating.”

In spite of the foot massage and the offer to spend the rest of the day there, Honey decided to return to her own home and right the shambles that the maelstrom of the rapid move had caused.

“Stop worrying, you two,” she said, before she backed out of the driveway. “If it weren’t for the stress, I might think it was morning sickness. But I’m not like that. I don’t get morning sickness.” She waved out the open window and drove home.

“You know, if this were a movie,” John started.

“That would be eye-rolling worthy foreshadowing,” Sherlock said and nodded in agreement.

***

Lost in deep slumber and wrapped up together, John and Sherlock slept through the first time the phone rang the next morning. The second time it rang, John pulled up enough from the depths of his dream to think maybe he’d heard something. The third time it rang, John fumbled for the phone. “Jesus. It’s quarter after six in the morning. Who calls at this hour?”

His fingers, still dull with sleep, struggled to tap the code that would unlock the phone. “Honey, what’s going on,” John said as he answered.

“You.” Was she angry? Was something wrong? “You did this to me.”

Sherlock, who’d rolled over when John answered the phone, heard the accusation clearly. “What did you do, John?”

“It wasn’t me. I didn’t do anything.” With Honey attacking him through the phone, he certainly didn’t need his husband doing the same thing.

With the sound of retching and the flush of the toilet, John and Sherlock understood.  
“So, uhm, it’s morning sickness?” John tried to sound comforting, but Honey didn’t miss the touch of why are you telling me this?

“I don’t feel good,” Honey whined, her voice echoing on the bathroom tile.

“She does know that you’re not a proper doctor, doesn’t she? You can’t cure her,” Sherlock snarked, a bit louder than he had intended.

“Tell your idiot husband I know that.”

Sherlock mouthed _oh wow_ as he rolled his eyes.

“And tell him I heard that,” she added. Her voice sounded frayed and tired. “Would one of you please go to the store and get ginger ale and saltines please? I’m sorry I woke you up, but I didn’t have anyone else to call.”

She sounded so pitiful, so sad when she said that, John couldn’t deny her. Before he even agreed, Sherlock was out of bed, pulling on yesterday’s clothes. “Ask her to unlock the front door and go back to bed. I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

The 24-hour convenience store had both the soda and crackers. Sherlock also bought a hot tea, wisely thinking that bringing a cup of coffee into Honey’s house might be less than welcome.

He called out to Honey as he entered her foyer, so she wouldn’t mistake the noise for an intruder. _At this point,_ he thought, _she’s just as likely to kill me for being me._

Honey had made her way back to the bed. She sat upright, eyes closed, and Sherlock watched her deep, even breathing. In through the nose. Hold it. Out through the mouth. Without disturbing her, he placed the glass of soda and a pack of saltines on her bedside table.

“If I don’t move, maybe I won’t puke,” she said without opening her eyes. “Maybe I can will it away.”

Sherlock offered to sit with her, to rub her back, get a cool cloth. Without opening her eyes, she whispered that she was fine.

“It’s not really y’alls fault,” Honey added, so quietly that Sherlock almost missed it. “This is just part of it. I’ll be a big girl, I promise.”

“We will check in a little later,” Sherlock said. “I’m taking the spare house key.” He didn’t wait for a nod.

By 9am, they received a text. **_“Feeling better. Starving. Will stick to crackers and ginger ale. Love you.”_**

Except they were sound asleep. Pregnancy was very difficult on a dad.


	10. Just a Small Bump, Unknown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Every expectant parent loves an ultrasound; some wind up happier than others. Week 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title comes from a wonderful Ed Sheeran song, "Small Bump"  
> 221btls, i live for your kind words and guidance.  
> gerinomoandbemagnificent, your giggles keep me going. IJS.
> 
> Fingers crossed, we're back on track!

                _ **Why do they call it *morning sickness* if it’s going to last all fucking day long???**_

“She keeps sending us group messages, John,” Sherlock threw his hands up in the air. “ _Why_ does she keep sending us group messages? Does she not realize I’m right next to you? Why do we _both_ need to be bothered?” he said, pacing in irritation. “And if she’s feeling that badly, how does she have the strength to text?”

Sherlock was well and truly over Honey’s quarter-hour texts. John tried to be more patient, but a headache bloomed behind his eyes from the frustration.

“Good God, is that her again?” Sherlock asked as their phones pinged. “She’s been texting us for Seven. Hours.” With each ping, Sherlock’s blood pressure rose; he could hear it swishing in his ears.

Sherlock had lectured John ad infinitum about the two best ways to relieve stress. One was a good, long run, pushing his body beyond what it thought it could achieve, until sweat dripped down his face and into his eyes. The other one was remarkably similar, but would require John. Sherlock eyed John, busy on his lap top.

John felt Sherlock’s eyes on him. “No. Just, no.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You didn’t have to. It’s written all over your face.” John wrinkled his nose and rolled his eyes. “I’m not in the mood.”

“Not even a little?” Sherlock asked, dropping onto the couch next to John and stroking John’s calf with his toes. “We have plenty of time before the ultrasound this afternoon. I’ll make it worth your time.” Sherlock waggled his eye brows in a way John thought was more funny than hot, but would never tell Sherlock.

Maybe a little, John thought as he tried to rub his headache away.

Ping! Ping! Both phones received a text.

**_You did this to me. WHY????_ **

Ping! Ping!

_**Someone needs to clean this bathroom floor. It’s seriously nasty and that was before I puked on it.** _

Ping! Ping!

**_Oh. Apparently that person would be me._ **

Ping! Ping!

**_How is it that I’ve been pregnant 4 times? FOUR. And this is the first time I’ve dealt with All Day Sickness._ **

Ping! Ping!

**_Why does your stink ass baby have to make me siiiiiiiiiick??_ **

Ping! Ping!

                ** _JW if you think my texts are funny or annoying??_**

Sherlock grabbed his phone, faster than John had seen him move all day. "No, Sherlock. Put the phone down!" Sherlock groused, but returned the phone to the table. "And no, I'm not even a little in the mood," John said, leaving no room for doubt. Sherlock actually hrrumpfed and pushed himself up off the couch.

Ping! Ping!

              _**Since I'm not busy, l**_ ** _et’s play a quote game. I’ll start. “And I suppose, if it’s my last chance to say it…”_**

John pecked at his laptop, rolling his eyes again at Sherlock’s back as he left the room. “She feels bad, Sherlock. I know it’s a pain in the ass, but we owe her. Besides, I think I can get her to stop.” He tapped the enter key on the laptop and a slow smile spread as he read the page. “Perfect.”

“You look rather pleased with yourself.” Sherlock returned in running pants and a long sleeve t-shirt and began stretching, making sure his ass faced John, just in case he changed his mind.

“Honey’s lonely and bored. She decided we should swap quotes. She used one from Doctor Who, but I know one that will gently get my point across.”

John switched from his laptop to the phone. He read the quote to Sherlock as he texted it:

_Life is a pile of good things and bad things. The good things don’t always soften the bad things, but vice versa. The bad things don’t necessary spoil the good things._

Sherlock stopped his lunge stretches long enough to kiss John. “You are brilliant. That was definitely kind, and hopefully as effective as _shut the fuck up_.”

John giggled. “I guess that’s the next step,” he said as his phone pinged once then again.

**_Dammit John, you’re a doctor not a philosopher. See you at 3 for the ultrasound._ **

**_Also, who the hell taught you that much about Doctor Who?!_ **

\---

Doctor Dimmock held up a thin, white wand with a bulbous end. “We’re going to do a transvaginal ultrasound. By going inside the vagina, we can see more clearly for our measurements,” he explained to John and Sherlock, who were standing near Honey’s shoulders.

Dimmock sheathed the wand in a protective condom and lubricated it. “Ready, Dads? Honey?”

John held Sherlock’s hand, lacing their fingers. He couldn’t speak. The words wouldn’t flow around the lump in his throat.

“Yes,” Sherlock said, low and subdued. How do people do this baby thing, Sherlock thought, his stomach in a knot. So much of it unknown. He wanted to tell John, _‘I don’t have enough faith in God and goodness to do this.’_ Instead, he gripped John’s hand, leeching whatever strength he could.

Honey turned to them; in contrast, her eyes shone and her smile warmed the chill of their fear. “This is a miracle, you two. Just watch. And quit looking like you’re at a funeral.” She smiled at the doctor and said, “Let’s show them how this is done!”

With Honey’s feet in the stirrups and a modesty drape covering her knees, the doctor inserted the wand and grainy black and white images appeared on the monitor.

“Oh shit,” Honey groaned. They saw her face pale, even in the dim light of the exam room.

John squinted at the screen. It didn’t make the images clearer or easier to understand.

“What? What is it?” Sherlock asked, seeing only Honey’s wide eyes and open mouth and the smile of success on the doctor’s face.

“Triplets,” Honey squeaked. After 4 children and innumerable ultrasounds, she did know how to read them.

“Congratulations, Dads!” Doctor Dimmock turned the monitor so they had a full view. He asked the nurse to hold the wand in place, and he came around to explain what they were seeing. “She’s right. Looks like you’re having triplets!”

John and Sherlock’s jaws dropped as they stared at the screen. They couldn’t do more than nod.

“These two dark circles are the gestational sacs. We transferred two—sac 1 and sac 2. But the embryo in sac two split, so Identical Twins. Unusual but not unheard of.”

Sherlock, John, Honey. Not one spoke. They’d figured one. Maybe two. Three? Never.

Dimmock shifted the monitor so he could continue the scan. With two clicks, he measured the growth of the first of the identical twins. “I’m measuring the crown-rump length.” Dimmock explained that the technical term was simply the measurement that would provide a gestational age.

“Perfect. Right where they should be for 6 weeks.” The ultrasound program clicked an X at the baby’s crown and one at its rump and the dotted line between the two measured 6mm.

“That’s--” Sherlock stuttered. “That’s a quarter of an inch. It’s only a quarter of an inch?”

Honey smiled and held his hand, stroking her thumb over his. “It’s a miracle,” she said with reverence.

Dimmock measured the other twin in that gestational sac, which measured almost the same.

“There!” Dimmock pointed at flitting-fluttering in the center of the CRL dotted line. “That’s the heartbeat!”

Honey squeezed Sherlock’s hand, a _‘see? It’s all good.’_ But she closed her eyes, her heart beating a little easier. Over the past six weeks, she’d wake in the dark hours of the early morning and listen to the agonizing doubts. _What if I mess this up for them. What if there are no babies. What if I miscarry?_

Dimmock moved the cursor to the second gestational sac and click click measure. Then he click click measured again. Sherlock watched Dimmock’s face closely, the crease between his eyebrows, the tilt of one brow.

“What?” Sherlock asked. “What are you seeing that we’re not seeing?”

He left Honey’s side to stand next to the doctor. Dimmock side-eyed Sherlock, who’d readjusted the monitor to face him directly. Unused to parents being so assertive, the doctor almost scolded him, told him to go back to his seat. From the set of Sherlock’s shoulders and his focus on the screen, Dimmock decided it would be useless to try.

Dimmock measured the CRL on the fetus in the second sac for Sherlock. “The other two measured right around 6mm.”

Sherlock heard the **_but_** coming before the doctor said it. He caught John’s eyes and saw sadness there.

Dimmock touched Sherlock’s arm, warm and reassuring, before he continued. “This one measures smaller, but there are any number of possible reasons.”

Sherlock squinted at the screen. The CRL measured 3mm. “That’s significantly smaller.”

“Yes and no.” Although the doctor’s words were equivocal, his tone wasn’t. “In terms of days, it’s only a 4 day difference. It could mean a differential of blood flow. It could be simply progressing slower. At this point, I wouldn’t even hazard a guess because it is still very early.”

“Where is the heartbeat?” John asked, already knowing the answer in the acid in his stomach.

“Again, it’s still early. It’s common not to see one until 8 weeks.” The doctor retracted the wand and wiped the excess gel from Honey’s thighs.

Dimmock offered Honey a hand to help her sit up on the table, but John pushed in possessively and helped her off the table. He glared at the doctor, even as he knew it was foolish and juvenile. It wasn’t Dimmock’s fault the baby was too small and didn’t have a heartbeat. Or that John stomach roiled.

As Honey slipped back into her clothing, Dimmock washed his hands and explained their next step to Sherlock and John, whose faces were pinched and pale.

“We already have an 8 week ultrasound scheduled. We’ll know more at that point.” He pressed his hand onto John’s shoulder in comfort. “If there’s a heartbeat, we’ll see it then.”

Sherlock asked what John couldn’t. “And if there isn’t?”

“If baby C has no heartbeat, but A and B are growing, then most likely Honey’s body will absorb that tissue and ultimately, it will be as if it were never there.”

John couldn’t look at the doctor or Sherlock; instead he stared at his fingers, mindlessly counting each tap on his thigh. _Anything_ so he wouldn’t hear the doctor speak so clinically about their child. Their baby.

“Go home and relax. We can’t do anything except wait and pray.” Dr. Dimmock stopped on his way out of the exam room to clap his hand on John’s shoulder. He intended it to be comforting. Supportive. Instead, it was fucking condescending.

Honey hugged John and leaned her forehead against his cheek. “Sugar, we really can’t do anything,” she whispered. “You know how, you would teach the kids and at some point, you put them on stage? It was up to them. You couldn’t do it for them.”

John closed his eyes, hearing Honey’s words. He nodded, her bangs soft against his cheek.

“CC has to do it for herself,” Honey finished. “Or himself. All we can do is love the 3 of them and wait for 2 weeks. I know you know that.”

Sherlock came up behind her, to hug her as she hugged John. “You’re a good mum. Your children are quite lucky to have you,” Sherlock said, quiet and serious.

“Mr. Holmes!” Honey brushed a smack against his behind. “I do believe that was a compliment.”

The three walked to their two cars, with John and Honey’s banter easy and light. A definite change from the exam room, Honey thought. She invited them to try Pop’s fried chicken with her again; John opened his mouth to accept, but Sherlock cut him off quickly.

“We can’t today, Honey,” he said, his tone clipped. “We have a prior appointment.”

John kept a straight face, not at all sure what Sherlock was playing at. They definitely didn’t have any plans except pasta for dinner every Friday night. He didn’t ask why; something about Sherlock was cold and closed off. He’d rarely seen Sherlock like this over the past 3 years. John watched and waited as Sherlock drove them home. With the radio off and Sherlock silent, the ride was uncharacteristically quiet.

“You’re quiet,” John finally offered, wrapping his hand around Sherlock’s right hand, resting on his leg. Sherlock only nodded in response.

“Are you ok?” John bit the corner of his lip, unsure whether he wanted to delve further. He knew that on the best days, Sherlock barely acknowledged feelings. “Do you want to talk about what the doctor said?”

“Why would I not be alright?”

John missed the edge to Sherlock, the tension forcing his back ramrod straight, his absolute focus on the traffic. “At most, it’s a collection of cells. At worst, it’s a collection of failed cells. It’s not a person.”

John’s stomach swirled and dropped. It was more than just cells, John thought. A lump rose in his throat. It was theirs. Their _baby_. As much as if they'd created it themselves.

John drew his breath in and held it. He counted to ten and then ten more. He felt the burn in his lungs before he released it. That was incredibly unfeeling, even for Sherlock who lacked any sense of grief or compassion.

“Also, you may have missed the signs,” Sherlock’s voice rang sharp and cold, “but I’m thinking. _**My**_ job actually takes planning and forethought. I don’t simply wave my arms while other people do all the work.”

Even as the words left Sherlock’s mouth, he knew he’d gone too far.

John clenched his teeth and withdrew his hand from Sherlock’s thigh, curling it into a fist in his jacket pocket. His face remained impassive, blank. Except for the vein at his hairline that he knew visibly throbbed. There were 3 things that John loved the most in this world: his job, these babies, and Sherlock, who’d managed to cruelly dismiss the first and denigrate the second.

Before Sherlock had put the car in ‘park’ in the garage, John blew out of the car, slamming the door just because he knew how much Sherlock hated that.

“John, I—“ The empty garage ate Sherlock’s words.

“I have to practice waving my arms around,” John yelled from inside the house, and Sherlock heard the door of John’s study slam shut.

John threw his backpack onto his desk chair. Too late he remembered the thick hardcover books he’d shoved in there after leaving the library the other day. It slid off the wooden chair and hit the wall, leaving a dent in the sheetrock.

“Dammitdammitfuck,” John yelled at the backpack, for being stupid enough not to stay put. Sherlock had better not say one thing about it, he thought, as he yanked his bag up from the floor and placed it into the chair.

“Broke the goddamn wall.” John glowered at the triangular dent in the sheetrock and blamed Sherlock for it (and he didn’t even think it was stupid to do it).

Why did Sherlock have to be like that? Like a machine, coldly objective. Always so clinical, saying whatever he wanted without thinking what someone else believed. Or felt. Like grieving the loss of a child he hadn’t met and never would. He felt tears prickling in his eyes and scrubbed them away with his fists. Fuck it. This tantrum wasn’t going to change anything.

John slapped the backpack off the chair and sank down into it. He had to acknowledge that this was not a new side of Sherlock. They’d had a few spectacular fights because of it right after John had first moved in. He’d actually been surprised the neighbors hadn’t called the police.

John smashed his finger down on the power button for the lap top and waited for it to boot (stupid slow as fuck computer!) then waited for his work email to accept his password (stupid fucking arm-waving job).

His head throbbed, and he ached from not being allowed to mourn. John leaned his head back. He listened to his heart, willing the beating to slow to its normal pace. As his head cleared, John thought about babies A and B, growing and thriving. His smile grew slowly as he thought about each of them holding a baby. Sherlock cuddling and kissing it. Them. And Honey was right. If it were a matter of faith, then he’d have to have enough for both of them.

A little more calm, John realized this had been about the baby all along and not Sherlock’s douchecanoe comment about his job. Was it possible that Sherlock was actually upset, too? At that moment, John realized the house was too quiet. No scratchy violin. No heavy metal music that drowned out anything John might try to say. This was wrong. John pushed himself out of the chair and decided he needed water. And, if he happened to run into Sherlock on the way to or from the kitchen, so be it.

But Sherlock wasn’t in the kitchen, or their bedroom, or the garage. Not that he was looking for Sherlock because he wasn't. John checked each room again, working his way to the French doors that led to the pool deck.

Through the closed doors, John heard keening, ragged breaths, and his blood ran cold; that was the sound of funerals and agonizing news.

Sherlock.

He’d thought Sherlock was some kind of machine, some emotionless creature, but his grief was shredding him, tearing him open. John gripped the doorknob, the steel cold in his hand. He felt powerless to help. If he couldn’t get Sherlock to put a proper jacket on in case the temperature had dropped in the late afternoon, how could he help him through this?

John grabbed a fleece blanket from the couch and stepped onto the pool deck, closing the door loudly enough that Sherlock would know that he was there. It would give him the chance to yell for privacy or to leave. He heard only the chatter of angry squirrels and the whine of the cicadas.

Sherlock had dragged a webbed deck chair into the corner of the screen enclosure and folded himself into it, twisting his entire body into the small space, ensuring his back was to the door and John.

Sherlock’s shoulders shook with weeping. John knew it wasn’t from the late afternoon chill, but he wrapped the blanket around Sherlock’s back and crouched in front of him.

“Please look at me,” John whispered, gently hooking his fingers under Sherlock's chin and trying to coax him to turn his head. Sherlock refused, holding his face away from John’s view.

Sherlock’s chest stuttered as he held his breath. _Notinfrontofjohnnotinfrontofjohn_ he begged silently. _Keep it together_.

“Baby, what's wrong. Please look at me.”

Sherlock’s curls caught January’s dying sunlight as he shook his head. They shimmered auburn as they settled back into place.

“Please, baby. Please talk to me.”

A sob wracked Sherlock's body, and he lunged forward, throwing his arms around John’s neck and burying his face in the crook of John’s neck.

“Shhh. It's ok. It's gonna be ok. I promise.” John held him tight and repeated that it would be alright. He stroked Sherlock’s back and pulled the blanket closer.

Sherlock’s body heaved with each gasping breath, as he clung to John. He tried to speak but his words were swallowed by his sobs. “Our baby. Our beautiful baby.” His speech was almost inaudible, lost in thick sorrow.

Gently, John pulled back so he could see Sherlock’s face. “Look at me. No. Look at me.” When Sherlock raised his chin, John whimpered. The piercing blue eyes were red and swollen; whatever color his skin had gained from being in the sun all summer was gone, now white and blotched

“We don’t know anything, honey.” John’s voice was warm, but authoritative. Whenever John usually used it, Sherlock would laugh and called it John’s teacher persona.

“There’s no heartbeat. It’s…It’s already…” Another sob devastated Sherlock’s body, and he buried his face in his hands.

“You listen to me, Sherlock Holmes.” John’s warmth was gone, replaced with steel. He had to shake up Sherlock. “We. Know. **Nothing**. The doctor was clear. It’s early, and it could take another two weeks to see the heart. Until then, we are going to believe that everything is perfect. **You** are going to believe that everything is perfect.”

Sherlock shuddered, withholding another sob. “This is the faith you’re always talking about.” He said it without sarcasm or anger.

“Yes.” John rested his forehead against Sherlock’s. “Do you remember, when you taught middle school, you would tell the students that the time to worry was before they took the test, not after they handed it in?”

Sherlock nodded, his nose brushing against John’s.

“It’s like that now. We did everything we could. All we can do now is believe. We’ve handed in the test, and we wait two weeks for the results.”

Sherlock took a deep breath and released it as slowly as he could. He buried his face in John’s neck, so that his next breath and his next would be John. Eucalyptus and peppermint and safety and faith.

\---

"How do couples  **do** this?" Sherlock asked for the jillionth time since the ultrasound two weeks before. He paced the living room, alternating between checking his phone for texts and his watch for the time. John sat placidly on the couch, engrossed in his computer.

"It's nerve wracking and exhausting." Sherlock pulled his fingers through his hair and let the loose pieces drift to the floor. “And look. I’m going bald. **Bald.** ” John didn’t comment. John was quite beautiful like that, never saying anything negative about him. He loved that about his husband.

"Plus, I've slept more the past two weeks..." He continued, assuming John was listening. John always listened to him. He was so good like that, letting Sherlock talk through his frustrations and confusion. Always supporting him.

Sherlock stopped pacing, to stare lovingly at John. Who stared intently at the laptop’s screen and who had headphones tucked snugly in his ears.

"John! **Are you listening**?"

John jumped at Sherlock’s bellow, jolting the computer off his lap. As he jerked to catch the flying laptop, his elbow knocked over the open bottle of water on the table.

"What!” John unsuccessfully sopped up the water with days-old newspapers. “Why did you yell?”

“You weren’t listening to me,” Sherlock accused him, not helping with water damage.

“I was working, Sherlock. Earning a paycheck.” He grabbed the sodden papers with two hands, trying not to drip on the rug as he rushed to the trash can. He frowned at Sherlock as he passed him and said, “You’re not going bald. Your hair is beautiful. And while you _have_ slept more, it’s only more for _you_. It’s still disturbingly less than a grown man needs.”

Sherlock’s jaw dropped.

“Yes, love. I listen to you.” John brushed a kiss on Sherlock’s cheek. “We might as well wait at the doctor’s office as here. At least I have a chance of you sitting calmly there. Besides,” John said as he checked the time, “we’re only a half hour early.”

Sherlock grabbed John around the waist and pulled him close. “I love you. You really are too good to me.” He kissed John’s jaw. His cheek, the tip of his nose, his lips. John’s beautiful lips, so soft and so Sherlock’s. “Thirty minutes, huh?” he said against John’s lips.

John kissed him back, pulling Sherlock’s shirt out of the back of his suit trousers so he could stroke Sherlock’s back. “I love you, too.” In between long, deep kisses, he said against Sherlock’s lips, “I have an idea. Let’s get married.”

Through answering kisses, Sherlock said, “We’ve already done that. Let’s have a child instead.”

“Or two. Maybe even—”

 

“Three!” Doctor Dimmock announced, pointing to the small flutter on the black and white image on the ultrasound monitor. “There’s the third baby’s heartbeat! Congratulations Daddies!”

Sherlock squeezed John’s hand before pulling him in for a hug. The smile-kisses they showered on each other were infectious. Honey pulled them down, grabbing them around their necks and whispering promises about their children before she’d let them go.

“I’m glad you’re excited for three,” Dimmock added as he shed his disposable gloves. “Not everyone is ready for that many babies.”

Sherlock swallowed hard and took John’s hand again. “When you spend two weeks thinking you’ll never hold one of your babies, that it’s passed away before you ever knew him or her…” He covered his mouth with his free hand until he could form words again. “Then you know what a real miracle is.”

He kissed John. Right now, he wanted to be home with John. In bed. Explaining with his words, his hands, his body, how he loved John Watson. How every thought, every breath was about him. For him. How a man, one for so very long who had never dared wish for more, had become two. And two had become five.

John smiled at Sherlock, a loopy, lopsided grin from his eyes and his mouth. “C’mon,” he whispered. “Let’s go home.”


	11. Mama, Don't Preach

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Once a mama, always a mama. At least until Sherlock sends Honey away so he and John can enjoy Valentine's Day ALONE. And there's Valentine's sex. Of course there is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you 221Btls for pushing me to be better than I actually am.  
> Thank you to geronimoandbemagnificent for pushing past your natural shyness and reading this to me outloud. and making me think, "did I write THAT?"
> 
> The chapter title is of course, a play on Madonna's song, "Papa Don't Preach."
> 
> Your comments mean so much to me. If you leave a comment, I will love your forever, and be your best friend, and I will call you squishy and never kill you off in a chapter. Mostly.

When the 8 week ultrasound had shown three heartbeats, John and Sherlock invited Honey to move in with them. The Baker Street house had several spare bedrooms. If she lived with them, they could help when she was ill. "And," Sherlock had reasoned, “perhaps she would text less."

“We can also let her rest, so she won’t have to cook and clean,” John added, but Sherlock had already considered the matter closed and had resumed his tunnel-focus on the essays he was grading.

“Ah,” John said aloud, even though he knew Sherlock wouldn’t hear, “apparently I’ll let her rest so she won’t have to cook and clean.”

It didn’t work out that way.

Defying all laws of physics, a Honey at rest did not tend to stay at rest.

With a giant grin and “Squeeeeee! Really? It’ll be like a party!” she moved in. Within days, 221 Baker Street was dusted. Mopped. Vacuumed. Scrubbed. Cooking for them was a breeze; they ate whatever she put in front of them. Plus, she was accustomed to a family too busy to eat at one set time; Honey had dinner ready and waiting on the stove when each arrived home.

John indulged in being cared for, waited on, tended to. Not having to be the one to clean the house. Cook the meals. See to the laundry.

That was, until their new housemate began to nag.

“John Watson! I folded that laundry and put it on your bed for you to put away. Please don’t just move it to the dresser. It won’t kill you to put it away.”

“Sherlock, you didn’t eat dinner last night. You’re going to get run down and wind up in the hospital.”

“Seriously? Can you not pick up your dirty glasses and put them into the sink?”

All of it accompanied by the open stance, planted feet, hands on hips.

“Jesus, Sherlock,” John said one night, hiding in their room with the lights out. “She’s worse than my actual mom ever was.”

Sherlock, afraid of being fussed at again for being awake through the night, took to working in their room, papers and text books spread out over the king-sized bed while John tried to sleep.

“Anthropologically, the role of the mother is the most basic a person can have. It is hard-wired into her, and with her own offspring missing, we have filled that void,” Sherlock lectured John.

"True." John chewed on that for a moment, but Sherlock's obscenely tight t-shirt drew his attention and imagination. “Anthropologically speaking, Professor Holmes, one of the most basic drives a human has is to fuck,” John said, rolling to his side and offering Sherlock a crooked grin. "Wanna get anthropological with me?”

Three loud knocks on their door interrupted them. “Good night, loves.” Honey said, her voice muffled. “Get some sleep. You'll be less grumpy in the morning. ”

Sherlock called out good night; John was too intent on not speaking—literally biting his tongue. "I'd be less grumpy if I could get fucking laid!"

Sherlock reached over and stroked John’s cheeks, rough with the hint of end of the day stubble. “Go to sleep, love. We’ll figure something out.”

Which was how John new exactly how he wanted to spend his favorite day in February.

***

“Do you remember how we agreed that Valentine’s Day was a pointless holiday created only to increase sales of greeting cards and sex toys?" John rolled his eyes, obviously not agreeing with the sentiment.

"I don't remember the sex toy part," Sherlock mumbled, absorbed in the essays he was grading. "AGH! I just wrote sex toy in the margin comment instead of sentence!" He scratched out the red marker comment and glared at John.

John snatched the pen out of Sherlock's hand and refused to return it, forcing Sherlock to pay attention. "I want a Valentine's gift. I really, really want one."

Sherlock put the essays down and stared John. "Is this your cryptic way of saying we need more sex toys? Because there's no reason to be. Or to wait. Faire Villa is open Til 10 every night. Midnight on weekends..."

"Someday were gonna talk about why you know that, but no." John shook his head. "I need Honey to go to London for Valentine’s Day. Not want. _**Need**_." He grabbed Sherlock's shirt and pretended to shake him.

Sherlock bit his lip trying not to laugh. Of the two of them, John was the “Patient One”. The “One Who Could Tolerate Anything”.

"Usually when you have me in this position, good things follow." Sherlock looked down at his shirt and then back to John. “But I can see from your face that the likelihood of that is almost none.”

“Ever since she moved in here 3 weeks ago we haven’t had a minute alone. Not to think. Not to—anything...” John pulled him closer, (the cotton shirt possibly irreparably wrinkled now, Sherlock thought) and whispered, “If we don’t fuck soon, I—I…”

“Hi, kids!” Honey called as she shut the front door with her foot, her hands filled with grocery bags. “Hope I’m not interrupting anything!” She laughed and brought the bags into the kitchen. “I thought I’d make us a beef stew tonight. It’s good for when it’s cold out. As if it actually gets cold in Florida. And a stew will put some weight on you, Sherlock. You’re too thin. I was thinking…” She continued chattering in the kitchen, the clatter of pans drowning her out.

“I. Hate. Stew.,” John hissed before he released his hold on Sherlock. “You know I hate stew. It’s chopped up Anti-Christ.”

“I’m so glad you both like stew!” Honey said, drying her hands as she stood in the kitchen doorway. “My family just hates it, and they won’t even let me make it.” She smiled brightly, rubbing her belly before she returned to the kitchen.

“I see.” Sherlock said. “She _is_ quite—voluble.”

John didn’t return the smile in Sherlock’s eyes.

“That’s because you’re absorbed in your work, and you don’t hear anyone. Or else you flat out ignore her. And everyone is okay with that, because,” John hissed again, throwing air quotes up. “‘ _That’s just how Sherlock is_.’ But everyone knows John is nice. John listens. And. She. Doesn’t. Stop.”

They heard the electric mixer whirring in the kitchen. “I bought a chocolate cake mix, too. Sherlock, we’re going to fatten you up yet!”

Sherlock swept his shirt, trying to remove the creases from John’s fists and trying not to think about how seductive Forceful John had been. How sexual. How wall-slamming beautiful...

He pulled his phone from his trouser pocket and began typing.

“Who are you texting?” John asked, put out that Sherlock’s attention span was so brief.

“Not texting. Checking flights to Heathrow and Gatwick. Happy Valentine’s Day, John.”

 

***

 

Which was how Sherlock bought one round-trip, first-class ticket for Mrs. H. Hudson to London-Gatwick for Monday, February 8 to return Tuesday, February 16.

Which was how John wound up with a gear shift grinding into his hip as he twisted in the front seat of the Jaguar, exploring Sherlock’s body with his lips and hands. Like returning home after months away. Years.

“Damn this fucking car for being so small,” John gasped as he tried to settle himself for the ride back home.

Sherlock, his hair messed from John’s hands and his lips red and swollen, rebuttoned his shirt and threw the car into gear.

“Siri,” he snapped at his phone in a voice so low and thick with desire that Siri didn’t recognize him. “Find me the closest hotel.”

Which was how they wound up 2 miles away at the front desk of the Hyatt Regency Orlando International Airport and learned that the blessed hotel had “day use rooms” available between the hours of 10am and 6 pm. It did make checking-in with no luggage slightly less awkward. Although, John repeatedly interrupting the check-in process to kiss Sherlock did make things slightly more awkward.

Outside the suite, Sherlock fumbled with the flat plastic key, unsuccessfully trying to slip it into the slit as John ground against Sherlock’s ass, his hand stroking Sherlock over the fly of his tailored suit trousers. “I’m going to take you apart, piece by piece, until you can’t speak. Until you can’t think about anything but my mouth,” John whispered in his ear.

Bursting through the suite door, John shoved Sherlock against the wall and growled, "I don’t have time for a bed.” He nipped at Sherlock’s jaw and neck, leaving them both breathless and demanding more.

“Me first.” John breathed, kissing the thin slip of Sherlock’s chest that was exposed with each button opened. He marked Sherlock, pushing the shirt fabric aside until he could grab the hard nipple with his teeth, tugging and flicking it.

“God, I love you. You’re so fucking gorgeous,” John murmured into Sherlock’s chest, down his stomach, until Sherlock’s belt stopped him.

On his knees, John slid his fingers into the suit’s waistband and pulled the shirt tails out. “Take that off. Now.”

Sherlock, eyes closed and breath ragged, did as he was told.

John teased Sherlock as much as he himself could stand. He traced the bulge in the trousers with his mouth, his own breath racing each time Sherlock’s cock twitched with longing. Using his teeth, John pulled at the tab forcing the zipper down while Sherlock grappled with the button and attempted to pull the trousers down.

John took over, nosing the hard bulge in the silk as he dragged the boxers and suit pants over the gorgeous ass and stopped mid-thigh. John wanted that cock in his mouth now and that was far enough to provide him the access he required. Sherlock wouldn’t be walking anywhere til John was done.

No finesse. Just need. “I love you,” he repeated.

John wet his lips and slipped them over Sherlock’s cock, the crown already wet. “I won’t last long,” Sherlock moaned, carding his fingers through John’s short hair and yanking him in closer.

John pulled off with a pop of his lips, long enough to respond. “Me either, and I don’t fucking care.” He swallowed as much of Sherlock’s cock as he could, his flat tongue working the underside and sucking deeply as he worked up and down the shaft.

Sherlock’s frantic noises pushed John’s arousal. He raised his eyes to watch, knowing every movement, every sway of his husband better than Sherlock knew himself. And Sherlock was so very close, his tongue darting out to lick his lips, his breathing ragged.

He thrust his hips forward, forward as he came, and John pressed in so that he swallowed every bit of Sherlock’s orgasm as it erupted and then gently sucked and licked him through the end.

Sherlock pulled John up by his biceps, face to face. He kissed John deeply, the lingering taste of him still in John’s mouth. But John’s jeans were too rough against his softening cock.

Sherlock reached to unzip the jeans, to remove them and go down on John, to return the favor. He desperately wanted to swallow John as deeply as he could. Let John pull Sherlock’s curls, drag his face in as close as he could go, fuck his mouth rough and hard...Sherlock mewled as he dropped to his knees, tracing John’s erection with this nose, flicking with his tongue.

“John, I want,” Sherlock rested his forehead against John’s stomach, his breath warm on John’s cock, dark and flush. He didn’t finish the sentence, instead engulfing John’s cock in the warm, wet heat of his mouth. He gripped John’s ass and pulled him in close, slapping John’s thigh. John bucked forward. Sherlock’s low moan tingled John’s cock sending him close to breaking.

 

John grabbed Sherlock’s curls and held his head still, his hips stuttering instead of finding a rhythm as he fucked Sherlock’s mouth.  
  
Sooner than he had hoped, John felt the tell-tale tightness in his balls and pulled out of Sherlock’s mouth, in time to spill himself on Sherlock’s chin and lips.

John propped himself against the wall, any strength having left his body, and laughed quietly. “What?” Sherlock asked, wiping his face with a towel from the bathroom.

“We’re like friggin’ teenagers,” John said, taking the towel and dabbing at a spot on Sherlock’s shirt. “You have to lay down some privacy rules with Honey, because I can’t keep doing this. I need you too much and entirely too often, it seems.”

“Me? Why must I speak with her?” Sherlock asked as John stepped into the bathroom.

“Because I’m too nice, and I won’t be able to. And blowing you is good,” John said, emerging naked. He kissed Sherlock, a deep, gorgeous kiss. “Isn’t it?”

Sherlock nodded solemnly. “Yes, it is good. Very good.”

“Ohhh, triple shower heads!” John said, setting the water to warm rather than hot. Sherlock followed John into the bathroom and closed the door.

Which is how they christened the shower.

Which is how they slept through the phone alarm, naked and tangled in each other.

Which is how John and Sherlock woke at 5:57pm in a darkened room with the airport lights dimly shining through the windows and a bellman knocking insistently at the door and calling “Check out time, please.”

“Why is someone knocking? No one even knows we’re here,” Sherlock said, from underneath the bedspread.

“Oh, shit!” John said, dull from the deep sleep and sex. “We have to get up! Check out is in 3 minutes.” John scurried around the room naked, putting on what clothes he could find and searching for the rest. He had to remember to thank the people at the front desk for sending someone to wake them; it must have something to do with the membership card Sherlock flashed at check in.

Sherlock picked up the room’s phone and rang the front desk. “We’ll be staying the night. I hope that won’t be a problem for you.” And hung up without waiting for a response.

John stood up, polo shirt on inside out, one sock on, his underwear in his hands, and stared at his genius husband.

“You look ridiculous,” Sherlock said, his voice still rough with sleep. “Take off those scraps of clothing and come here.” He patted next to his sleep-warm body. “Today was entirely too delightful to end rushing around. When we wake up, we’ll leave. Or we’ll stay till check out.”

With a few taps on his phone, Sherlock said, “I’ve cancelled my classes for tomorrow. And it’s your day off. Please come back.”

John thought the promise in Sherlock’s voice sounded bewitching. He shucked his sock and shirt and slid back into the cocoon of the bed.

When they returned home Tuesday morning, Sherlock led John into their room. Into their bed.

Which was how John and Sherlock spent the week, cancelling rehearsals and classes when they could and returning home as quickly as possible when they couldn’t. They closed themselves off from the outside world, craving only each other.

“Before Honey left,” John said one night, as he and Sherlock lay curled up together on the couch pretending to watch television. “I feel like you and I were so off-kilter. Will you talk to her?”

Sherlock nodded. He was memorizing every one of these moments alone with John, filling up a new wing in his mind palace with every touch of hands, brush of lips, smile and laugh. When the babies came, time for themselves would be rare and hurried; that much he could deduce. He needed to savor these moments and save them.

“Yes, I will. As soon as she’s settled in again tomorrow.” Sherlock nuzzled behind John’s ear. “But tonight, I don’t want to talk about her.” His lips traced the helix of John’s ear, and he whispered, “I prefer not to talk at all.”

The warmth of Sherlock’s breath sent a shiver through John. He rolled over, their bodies pressed together on the small couch. John preferred not to talk, as well.

 

***

“Boys! I’m home!” Honey’s voice echoed through the empty house. She’d expected to find it a shambles, but as she closed the front door, she realized how tidy and clean they’d kept the house while she was away.

At this time of the morning, they were probably at work, she thought as she rolled her suitcase to her room. She cracked the window a little to allow some spring air to replace the stuffiness in her room. The bed looked so inviting, especially after spending so long on the plane, and she was exhausted, and a nap did sound pretty good.

 

“Is she not here?” John asked Sherlock, flipping on the chandelier's switch to add light to the dark living room.

“I didn’t get a text, ironically," Sherlock said with a chuckle.

The chandelier spilled its light into Honey’s bedroom; that, combined with the two deep voices, roused Honey from her nap. The clock read 6:15pm but that couldn’t be right. She’d just gotten into the bed. But the darkened room didn’t lie.

“Sleeping Beauty!” John smiled as Honey plopped onto the couch in the living room. “Have a good trip?”

“It was wonderful. Thank you so much for sending me.” She smiled at them, content and at peace.

Honey told them a little about the trip and the kids, how much they’d grown in six weeks, how adorable they look in their school uniforms. “Emma and Violet wouldn’t let me lift a finger. I was waited on and catered to. I didn’t cook a single meal.” She smiled transcendently. “It was wonderful!”

Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, but Honey put her hand up to cut him off.

“I realized while I was away, that I may have been treating you two more like my children instead of my friends. And I’m sorry.” She looked down at her hands, resting on her belly. She held back her tears, and when she turned her face back to them, she was smiling. “I hope I wasn’t too horrible.”

“Actually,” Sherlock interrupted.

“Not at all. We really appreciate everything you did,” John interrupted before Sherlock could continue. “But you’re here to rest. If you are willing to cook, we’ll do everything else including the shopping.”

Honey smiled brightly, relieved that this had gone so much better than she’d expected. “That would be great!”

“But not stew,” Sherlock said bluntly. “John hates your stew. I love it but he can’t stand it.”

John’s jaw fell. Unable to speak, he elbowed Sherlock’s ribs.

“Also, John requires quite a lot of sex so that he doesn’t become a grumpy ass,” Sherlock continued. “To that end, if our bedroom door is closed, you don’t need to worry about us. We’ve also installed in your room a television with cable, a radio that doubles as an iPod speaker, and a white noise machine. That should drown out anything you might hear.”

Honey’s mouth was agape, unable to speak.

“John can be quite loud.” Another elbow to the ribs. “And I don’t want you to be uncomfortable, because, although he isn’t the brightest, he would be able to deduce if you were unsettled, and then he would become embarrassed, and would no longer wish to engage in our healthy, active sex life. And I can’t have that. Because as I said, he can be such a grumpy ass.”

Honey bit her lip and scrunched her eyes closed. _Ewwwwwwww_! Would be the totally wrong thing so say. So she said nothing.

When she could speak, she croaked, “I’m going to start dinner. But not stew.” She left the room without looking at them.

“At least she waited til she was in the kitchen to laugh at us,” John hissed. “Why the fuck did you say all of that?”

“I don’t see your point,” Sherlock said, setting himself to work in his favorite chair. His briefcase bulged with student essays and tests. “It is true. You’ve been much less grumpy this past week. Practically purring.”

“I’m going to kill you, and no one will even try to arrest me,” John grumbled, loud enough for Sherlock to hear. “They won’t even look for your body.”

Since Sherlock had long since stopped listening, John took a deep breath to steel himself and walked into the kitchen. But not like a man walking to his death. Because no one had ever, actually died from mortification.

“Honey, I--”

“Oh my god, John,” Honey huffed out a laugh. “How did you even keep a straight face while he was saying that?” She leaned against the counter, laughing until she cried.

Through his own laughter, John said, “I won’t even tell you how much that was not me. I do get grumpy, but all the rest was about him!”  
  
She held her hand up to stop him. “Jesus, John. A TV, a radio, _and_ a white noise machine? How fucking loud does he get? No. Don’t answer that. Promise me you won’t let the children tell him any secrets, though.”

“What are you making?” John asked, wiping his eyes as he looked over her shoulder.

“Not stew, that’s for sure,” she teased.

“I’m sorry. I should have told you.” John had the grace to turn red as he said it.

“Is it just _beef_ stew? Because I know recipes for chicken fricassee. Bouillabaisse—that’s seafood stew. Brunswick stew. There’s Cassoulet. Of course, Ragout.”

Honey felt at peace for the first time in weeks. She didn’t know if it were from the good friends, the banter, the time spent with her own family. But she was happy as she cooked and teased John.

***

“Today’s the 12 week ultrasound. Hope you haven’t grown too attached to us,” Dr. Dimmock said with a paternal smile. “This should be your last visit here. I expect you’ll be released to your own obstetrician.”

The nurse had told Honey that she wouldn’t need to change into an exam gown. “We’ll ultrasound over your abdomen today.”

Honey lay on the table and slung her elastic-waist pants over her small baby bump. The doctor pushed her shirt out of the way and squirted several generous dollops of gel on Honey’s rounded belly.

“Beautiful.” Dr. Dimmock beamed, so pleased at his work. Three little jelly beans, hearts aflutter. He measured the CRL for Baby A, B and C, and pointed at the screen. “Do you remember that at 6 weeks, the babies measured a quarter-inch?” he asked Sherlock

Sherlock nodded, recalling also that baby C had measured smaller than A and B.

“Today they’re 2 ¼ inches. And baby C is closer to 2⅓. And now--”

Honey squee’d. _This_ would be wondrous for John and Sherlock.

“I can’t promise this will work today, but we have a good chance--” Dr. Dimmock held up a new instrument.

“It looks like a microphone and speaker,” John said, his eyebrows raised in confusion.

“Exactly!” Honey almost laughed. “Just listen.”

Dimmock pressed the Doppler microphone to Honey’s stomach.

WooshWooshWooshWooshWooshWooshWooshWoosh.

Through the speaker they heard three heartbeats, mingling and interrupting each other. The most beautiful music John and Sherlock had ever heard.

The most beautiful music they’d ever created together.


	12. Who Are You? Who? Who?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock aren't sure they'll survive Honey's cravings and mood swings. But maybe learning the genders of their 3 babies will make it easier!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge TYTYTY to GeronimoAndBeMAGnificent and 221Btls
> 
> Apologies to the 9th Doctor, Herc the Berk, and The Arctic Monkeys.

“Where is it? It was on the list! You promised you’d get it.” Honey wailed, frantically searching through the plastic grocery bags lining the kitchen counter.

“Oh, pipe down!” John said, waving her off. Weeks ago he’d jettisoned the idea that Honey was a guest. Now she was more like a really grating, annoying sister. Whom he loved enough to indulge. “Sherlock’s got more.”

The front door pushed open, and Honey grabbed the bags from Sherlock. “Here it is! My preciousssss,” Honey said raising up the jar of Nutella like Simba. “And…”

“Yes, it’s right here,” Sherlock huffed, shoving the party-size bucket of vanilla ice cream into her hands.

With a squeal of glee, Honey returned to the kitchen. She heated several generous tablespoons of the chocolate hazelnut spread and poured it over the mound of ice cream she’d scooped into a bowl.

Before she rinsed the microwave bowl, she double-checked that she was alone in the kitchen and ran her finger through the last streaks of spread.

“I know you’re licking that bowl,” Sherlock called from the living room. “You’re too quiet.”

“Mmm’not,” she yelled back, her fingers in her mouth.

Honey grabbed her ice cream and dropped onto the couch across from Sherlock. She stuck her tongue out at him and said, “I’d ask you if I could make you some too, but y’know, I don’t want to share.” She giggled and dug into her post-breakfast dessert.

“At least, as her cravings go, this one’s not too bad,” John said with a grimace.

“I _still_ do not understand fried pickles,” Sherlock said, repulsed.

“It’s because you are not a southern gentleman,” Honey said, her mouth full of gooey ice cream. “Actually, you’re neither.”

“You wound me, madam,” Sherlock said. “I am southern.”

“The southern part of England doesn’t count.” Honey watched him sink into his squidgy chair, and turn his focus completely to student essays that now covered his lap.

“Didya ever consider not assigning so many papers? Maybe giving them a break? How long have those papers been in there?” she asked as she pushed herself up from the too-soft couch in search of more food.

Sherlock’s death-laser stare didn’t stop her stream of questions.  
“And what about your own work? How’s your dissertation coming?” Her voice floated back to him from the kitchen. The pantry door opened. Closed. Cabinets opened. Closed.

“I thought we agreed you would stop nagging,” he said pointedly to Honey as she resettled on the couch. She’d filled her bowl with strawberries which likely hadn’t even made it to the refrigerator yet.

John snickered as he finished putting away the groceries.

“Do you plan to save some of the food for us?” Sherlock asked her, not looking up. “John, did you buy those locks for the cabinets?”

Honey sensed the smile on his face, which still faced the stack of papers.

“Oh! Let’s go to the strawberry festival this weekend,” Honey said, looking forlornly into the now empty bowl. “I can probably make it the hour and a half without stopping to pee too many times.”

John laughed outright. “You can barely make it to the grocery store two miles away without rushing past everyone to use the bathroom.”

“Yeah. That’s true.” She thought about it and nodded solemnly. “I’ve been thinking…”

“God help us.” John set a cup of tea and plate of toast, buttered and cut into triangles, next to Sherlock before he returned with his own breakfast and sat on the couch near Honey.

“Shut up. Have y’all been thinking about names?” Honey brought a folded piece of paper from her pants pocket.

“You made a list?” John asked, incredulously. “We’re only at 4 months.” He reached out to still her jiggling leg.

“Only? Do you realize how much you have left to do?”

Two blank stares answered her.

She ticked items off on her fingers as she named them. “You need names. You need to figure out how you’re going to decorate the nursery. You need to find a day care. You need to interview pediatricians. You need to register at local stores so people can buy you gifts…”

The same two blank stares, this time with slack jaws.

“It’s a good thing you’ve got me,” she said with a grin. “Ok, let’s just start thinking about names, because at the ultrasound tomorrow, we’ll likely leave knowing what genders your babies will be.”

The names ranged from ridiculous to the sublime. Tallulah. Arthur. Violet (for Sherlock’s Mummy). Daniel. Phil. Orlando. Taylor (John suggested that would be appropriate for either a son or a daughter, to which Sherlock sneered that no child of his would be named after such a pedestrian occupation). London. Adelaide. Dallas.

Sherlock, who thought each suggestion was worse than the one before, decided to offer up his own. “What about Jacksonville. Sacramento? Kansas City?”

“Ohhhh,” Honey said, writing quickly on her piece of paper. “Is that City c-i-t-y or c-i-t-i? Because with the two i’s, it sounds adorable…”

“Both of you, stop,” John said. “Once we know genders, we will think about names.”

“Colors? What colors will you use?” Honey turned the paper to the back ready to write down decorating suggestions.

“Woman, you need a hobby,” Sherlock said a bit too sharply. “One that isn’t this house or these children. What happened to the middle school PTA?”

“I don’t belong anymore,” Honey said twisting her hands in her lap. She wouldn’t look at the two men.

“You okay?” John asked quietly. Honey nodded.

“I’m sure the PTA is starved for volunteers. A little thing like your children not being here shouldn’t make a difference to them.” Sherlock dismissed the entire issue with a wave of his hand.

Honey burst into tears.

“Sherlock. Apologize. Now.”

“Of course the PTA will welcome their former president back. She’s being foolish.” Sherlock did not in the least bit understand what caused this foofaraw.

Honey scrubbed her eyes with her fists, with the hope that wiping away the tears would stop more from coming.

“It’s…” she gulped, “It’s…my emotions. They’re…”

John didn’t know whether to laugh at Sherlock or punch him. Well aware that he’d married an insensitive ass, John had assumed Sherlock had more tact than to brush off how much Honey missed her family.

“No, it’s not,” John said, offering Honey a tissue. “For someone who’s a genius, he can be a real idiot.” He glared at Sherlock, who finally seemed to understand he’d made a mistake. Somehow.

“What did I say?” Sherlock managed to sound hurt and believe that he was the injured party.

“She misses her kids, you—berk.” John shook his head, admitting defeat in trying to teach Sherlock any sensitivity.

Honey took a deep breath, blew her nose, and waited until she was composed enough to speak. “My emotions are a mess from the hormones,” Honey explained to John. “I know Sherlock’s an ass. It usually doesn’t bother me.”

“Hey! That’s not nice!” Sherlock muttered. He said a few things under his breath, which sounded like, _I’m not that bad_ and possibly, _I thought I was doing better!_

Honey giggled. “I love you, Sherlock Holmes. God only knows why.” She pushed herself out of the couch, her growing belly already making it difficult for her to maneuver. She kissed Sherlock’s cheek and said, “Maybe you’re right, though. I could use a hobby.”

She disappeared into her room and returned wearing untied sneakers and exercise clothes. Without being asked, Sherlock dropped to the floor and tied Honey’s sneakers for her. She smiled at him and said, “I think I’ll walk the half-mile to the middle school and see if anyone needs any help. It will be good to see my friends there.”

Honey disappeared out the door, calling a goodbye in her wake.

“You’re an idiot.” John rolled his eyes. “You can’t talk about the kids being gone.”

“Yes,” Sherlock said, piling the essays into a neat stack. “I should definitely be punished.”

He walked into the bedroom, discarding clothing as he went. His button down shirt. His trousers. The silk boxers flew out of the bedroom door and landed on the threshold.

“Oh, hell yes,” John said. He looked at his watch and smiled. Plenty of time before his work meeting. He followed Sherlock’s trail and closed the bedroom door.

\---

Mycroft enveloped Greg, sleepy from pleasure and euphoria on an island of cushions pulled hurriedly from the sunroom’s wicker furniture. Greg slept with his head on Mycroft’s arm, his small breaths tickling Mycroft’s hand.

Mycroft smiled, not from the tickles but from this…This relationship was so much more than he thought he would ever find again. Greg made him ridiculously happy. He didn’t have to do anything special; Greg liked him just as he was. Loved him just as he was.

He’d come home early, expecting to settle into his favorite chair and work most of the night. When he saw Greg lying on the wicker recliner in the sunroom, with his eyes closed, captivated by _Madama Butterfly_ , Mycroft knew his plans to work were scuppered.

Greg hummed the melody, so quietly that Mycroft almost missed it. He looked so beautiful, the music filling him with joy. Something about this stolen moment was absolutely perfect, and Mycroft loved him even more.

 _That fraud_ , Mycroft thought as a soft smile creased his face. _All of his talk about despising classical music, and he listens to mine while I’m away._

Mycroft sat on the edge of the chaise and nuzzled the side of Greg’s neck. Greg sighed out a small moan as Mycroft kissed him again, this time with more heat and hunger. He grazed his hand down Greg’s chest and whispered “Guess who?”

“Fuck! I ordered you hours ago, and you’re late. My boyfriend will be home any minute,” Greg teased, brushing his head against Mycroft’s forearm before turning and capturing Mycroft’s mouth with his. “Oh, forget my boyfriend,” he mumbled against Mycroft’s lips. “You’re hotter. Sexier.” He dragged Mycroft to him, and eventually, onto the cushions they hastily threw onto the floor for comfort.

When they finished—hot and sweaty with a blanket thrown over them to ward off a chill—Mycroft curved behind Greg. Listening to the easy rhythmic breathing, Mycroft knew Greg’d fallen asleep; he took those moments to just watch and trace his hand over Greg’s body. Even after a year together, Mycroft sometimes couldn’t believe he could touch, kiss, caress him whenever he chose. He slid his hand down Greg’s side, his thigh and back up again, thanking God for his good fortune and happiness.

The late afternoon sun pouring in the windows painted their naked skin golden, almost ethereal. He’d never told Greg—it seemed too silly to mention—but this room was his favorite place to shag. Their bedroom was well-appointed, handsome. Comfortable, steady. Like making love before falling asleep nestled against each other.

But the sunroom.

The sunroom screamed burning need and _fuck me now_. Serendipity and faster and more. He embraced Greg tighter, hoping somehow he could transmit his feelings skin to skin. He smiled against the warm, freckled shoulder.

Mycroft’s phone chimed on the table closest to Greg. He didn’t want to wake him; perhaps, if he reached just one more inch, he could secure it and check his message.

"Don't even try," Greg said, his voice thick and dark from sleep. "You are not going to interrupt our post-sex hebetude to answer your phone." He edged closer to Mycroft, pressing his bottom against Mycroft's softening cock.

Mycroft brushed a kiss against Greg’s neck and smiled. “Hebetude. Oh my.”

“It means lethargy,” Greg said with false gravity. “It’s from the Word of the Day calendar you gave me at Christmas. And don’t distract me. You’re still not checking your phone.”

"Gregory, I am obliged to respond to certain texts immediately, and I cannot know which ones unless I check. I’ve explained this to you.”

“Yes,” Greg acknowledged, “And I told you I didn’t agree and wasn’t listening.”

This time, Mycroft nipped at the sensitive skin behind Greg’s ear and then kissed away the pain. “Please,” he asked simply.

With a sigh, Greg lifted his head to allow Mycroft to reach for his phone. “It’s from Sherlock.”

They heard the muffled TARDIS text alert from Greg’s phone, in the pocket of his trousers which were somewhere in the sunroom.

“We are invited to dinner this evening to learn the results of the ultrasound’s gender identification.” Mycroft said, reading out the text.

“Are we going?” Greg asked. “You could brilliantly deduce the genders and gloat. Sherlock will hate that.” He struggled to stand; each time he put his foot down, the pillows slid and he fell against Mycroft, who laughed but didn’t do much to help.

Mycroft texted his response and in one elegant move, stood and retrieved his clothes.

“There’s a delightful shop in the center of town,” Mycroft said, looking at his watch. “If we don’t dawdle, we can find perfect gifts and arrive at my brother’s on time.”

\---

Greg and Mycroft arrived for dinner hands filled with one decadent chocolate cake and three identical, white gift bags with tufts of white tissue paper peeking from the top.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and frowned as John shut the door behind them. Without pleasantries, he said, “You’ve deduced our news, haven’t you?”

“Obviously. But I have not shared it with Gregory, so your secret is safe.”

John thought he might like to punch that smug smirk off Mycroft’s face. With a deep breath and extraordinary willpower, he left to put the finishing touches on the dining room table.

Honey’s dinner was exceptional. Roasted new potatoes. Baby carrots. Baby back ribs. She liked the menu for its whimsy, but loved it because it was evil. She and John had laughed themselves breathless in the grocery store at the thought of Mycroft and Sherlock eating messy, gooey, sloppy finger food.

In the end, with complaints and insults, Mycroft and Sherlock finished their dinner, but not before Sherlock broke into the stash of wipes that Honey had begun stockpiling for the babies.

“To be fair,” Greg said, wiping barbecue sauce from his mouth and hands with the wet cloth, “Using these was genius.”

Sherlock scoffed in derision at the use of the word genius. “Of all of my brilliant accomplishments, _this_ is the one that strikes you as genius?”

Mycroft scowled. He opened his mouth to reply in defense of Greg, but before he could speak Honey jumped in.

“I know I saw gift bags!” Honey said. “I’ll make coffee and cut the cake and then you can open them.” She chuckled as she pointed to Mycroft. “Besides, he’s dying to see if he deduced it correctly.”

Mycroft smiled politely. Sherlock pushed away from the table, unaware he’d irritated his brother. Greg shook his head and laughed off Sherlock’s snark. Instead, he retrieved the 3 white bags and placed them on the coffee table, where Honey had placed the cake.

Sherlock tried to be mature and wait until after dessert to open the gifts, to listen to the small talk. “How can you stand this?” He waved his hands toward the coffee table, almost bouncing in his chair. “Don’t you want to know?”

“I think you’ll find I already know,” Mycroft smiled.

Again, John thought he would _quite_ like to punch the smirk off Mycroft’s face. Honey smiled and held John’s hand, lacing their fingers so he couldn’t curl it into a fist.

Sherlock grabbed all three bags into his hands, but when John raised an eyebrow to reprimand him, he returned them to the table with a sigh.

“Three of us in this together,” John said. “We each get a bag.”

Sherlock ripped the tissue paper out of his bag and pulled a tiny sky blue Lacoste polo shirt and matching striped shorts, perfect for a newborn.

“Mycroft. It’s—it’s adorable,” Honey gasped. “But—Lacoste?” she whispered, well aware of the extravagance of the gift.

Greg’s eyes widened, and he nodded solemnly.

“Nonsense,” Mycroft smiled indulgently. “These are my—“

“No! You haven’t proven yourself right yet. Open yours, John,” Sherlock ordered.

John opened his bag. This one held a pale pink polo shirt with white bloomers, the green alligator symbol distinct next to the shirt button placket.

“Oh, that’s just even odds,” Sherlock said, drowning out John’s coos of delight.

“Last bag, Honey,” Mycroft grinned. “What could it be?”

Sherlock barely contained himself, almost jumping out of his chair to tear the bag from Honey. Only John’s glare kept him at bay.

Determined to provoke the two brothers, Honey slowly removed one piece of white tissue paper. She brushed out the wrinkles. She folded it into quarters and placed it on the couch. She removed the second piece, barely hiding her laughter. Before she could brush out the wrinkles, Greg said, “For God’s sake. I still don’t know what the other twin is,” and he snatched the bag from her and reached inside.

“A boy!” Greg announced, holding up another sky blue Lacoste set. “Twin boys and a little girl.”

He beamed at them and kissed Honey’s cheek. Then he shook John and Sherlock’s hands, clapping them on the shoulders before just drawing them into hugs.

Mycroft smiled at Greg’s fuss, how excited he was for these births. “Congratulations, John. Sherlock.”

“Tell me how the hell you figured it out.” John demanded. “And this had better be the last time you deduce our children.”

He glared at Mycroft, trying to intimidate him, but Mycroft simply smiled.

Through a series of percentages regarding live births, family births and histories, statistics and possibly the gross national product, Mycroft explained how he arrived at his conclusion of two boys and one girl.

“Bullshit,” Greg coughed into his fist. “He took a shot. But he bought 3 of each color, and there’s another blue and two more pink in the car.”

Mycroft stuttered out a counter-argument, but Greg kissed him quiet. “I love you, you old faker,” Greg whispered against Mycroft’s cheek.

Mycroft blushed, at least until Sherlock pretend-retched.

“When you are both prepared to display age-appropriate public behavior, I will continue,” Sherlock grumbled.

Greg blushed, but didn’t let go of Mycroft’s hands.

“Although John and I are not religious men, we are—“ Sherlock struggled to find the right word to complete his thought.

“Spiritual. I believe that God exists and loves us,” John said. “We would like to ask you three and Matthew to be the godparents to our children. We will set up a date to have them Christened at an Episcopal church here in town.”

Mycroft’s eyes widened as he watched Sherlock. This wasn’t who his brother was—he’d never wanted anything to do with organized religion. He observed Sherlock over the babble of voices and saw enthusiasm and joy. Perhaps—it wasn’t who his brother was, but was now. They’d all changed, hadn’t they?

“I would be delighted to be a guardian for my niece and nephews,” Mycroft said and shook Sherlock’s hand, before pulling him in for an awkward hug. “I already love them as if they were my own.”

Sherlock squeezed Mycroft tighter, not used to the physical display from his brother. His smile spread at Mycroft’s words, but he would never admit it. “Don’t expect us to name one of the babies after you.”

“I think Mycroftena is a lovely name for a little girl…”

After they finished cake and coffee, Mycroft and Greg rose to leave. Honey saw them to the door, whispering and, to Sherlock’s eyes it seemed they were conspiring.

When she closed the door behind their guests, Honey looked happy but guilty. She walked past her friends and said, “If you all would tend to the mess, I’d appreciate it. I’m exhausted!”

“One moment, Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock’s voice boomed, stopping her in her tracks. She pivoted slowly, hiding her smile in puckered lips. “We aren’t finished with you, if you would please sit.”

Honey raised an eyebrow but did as he asked.

John grabbed the envelope he’d hidden behind some books in the tall bookcase. “Sherlock’s mum mentioned that your wedding anniversary is in May but at the ultrasound today, when we asked the doctor about flying, she said not after 5 months, so…”

John handed Honey the envelope. Her stomach dropped as she slit the seal.

She gasped in shock, staring at the paper. “Paris? You’re sending us to Paris?!”

Sherlock looked pleased, thrilled they’d surprised her. “For your anniversary, but since you can’t fly after April, we cleared it with Matthew and booked for the end of March. Plus, Mummy and Emma will watch the children while you’re away.”

Honey burst into tears and threw herself into a hug with John. “I can’t believe you did this for me. It’s…incredible…kind…”

“John,” Sherlock asked, his voice unsure. “John, why is she crying? She shouldn’t be crying. Why does she never make sense?”

“Shhh, Sherlock,” John said as he patted Honey’s back. “She’s pregnant. She cries. It’s all good.”

“Obviously she’s pregnant, John…If you’re going to be idiotic…”

Honey smiled at Sherlock and laughed through her tears. Gently, she wrapped her arms around his waist and explained. “It’s the hormones, Sherlock, remember. Thank you for the anniversary present.”

Sherlock awkwardly returned the hug, still unsure how to deal with a crying woman. “Morning sickness. Hormones. Mood swings. Thank God _I’m_ not pregnant.”

John shook his head and sighed. “Yes, dear. Otherwise you might lose your patience, snap at people, and tell them they’re idiotic.” John rolled his eyes and began to tidy the dessert dishes from the coffee table.

“I do no such thing.”

Honey snickered at Sherlock’s indignation at the mischaracterization. She held him tighter.

“Oh!” she said, pulling away from Sherlock. “One of your babies just kicked me!”

“Serves you right.” Sherlock pretended to be in a snit as he reached out slowly to touch her belly.

“Ha. Maybe I do wish you were pregnant, if you got kicked,” John mused, nodding.

“I know it’s a tiny bit early, but I know what it feels like.” Honey rubbed her growing belly in the spot where she’d felt the twinge. “Good night, boys.”

Sherlock and John watched her walk to her room, almost floating on her happiness.

Together they rinsed the dishes but left them in the sink. They had much more important things to do than the dishes. They had babies to celebrate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yes, infant Lacoste polo shirts and shorts are a thing. [ now you know why Greg nodded solemnly. times SIX.](http://www.lacoste.com/us/lacoste/kids/new-born/)


	13. Can You Paint With All the Colors of the Room?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With Honey away for a week, it's a great time to work on the nursery. But first, John and Sherlock have to agree on SOMETHING.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HUGE thanks to [GeronimoAndBeMAGnificent](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Geronimoandbemagnificent) and  
> [221Btls](http://archiveofourown.org/users/221Btls)  
> for being wonderful betas.
> 
> Apologies to Home Depot for John Watson.  
> THANK YOU to EarlGreyTea68 for letting me borrow Eames from #NextBigThing Go read it. don't be daunted by the # of chapters. Read the chapters, stay for the comment parties

“God yessss _There_. Right. There. No, don’t stop. Please. ” Finally, Sherlock sighed out an ahhhhhh and relaxed against John.

“For fuck’s sake, Sherlock. It’s a back scratch, not an orgasm,” John said, pulling Sherlock’s shirt down and pushing him off the bed.

“On the contrary, John.” Sherlock tucked the tails of his cotton shirt into his trousers. “Studies show that a good back scratch produces the same endorphins and serotonin response as an orgasm.”

“You’re just making that up,” John laughed as he finished putting on his work clothes.

“You can’t prove it.” Sherlock’s smile told John all he needed to know. “And why do you call _those_ your work clothes.” He pointed to John’s painty and torn jeans and the t-shirt from the school where he worked years ago outside London. “I’ve seen what you wear to work. Although, it’s not much nicer…”

“Suit yourself. Ha! See what I did there?” John snorted, pointing at Sherlock’s hand-tailored suit.

Sherlock stood silent, unwilling to be an accessory to the bad pun.

“If you want to wear that,” John pointed up and down at Sherlock’s clothes, “while we clean out my office, you’re welcome to. But I’m not letting you out of any work because it will _muss your fancy bespoke suit_.” He mocked the last words before he kissed Sherlock’s cheek and left.

Early on, Sherlock had decided they would use John’s old bedroom for the nursery, and with Honey in Paris, it was the perfect time to tackle the job. They wouldn’t have to worry about noise bothering her if they worked late into the night or about fumes from the paint making her ill.

“You’re mocking my clothing. Why are you mocking my clothing?” Sherlock asked, peering at John. “Are you still peeved about losing your space? Because, you sleep in my room now.”

“First, you idiot, it’s _our_ room. Second, it’s my study. I work in there. I keep my books and¬--and my stuff in there.”

“You mustn’t be so rigid, John,” Sherlock advised. “Being able to adjust to new situations is the sign of a healthy mind.”

John balled his fists and shoved them in his pockets so he wouldn’t punch Sherlock. Instead, he told him where he could shove his healthy mind. Sherlock laughed and waggled his eye brows suggestively, and whispered to John his ideas on being more flexible.

“Sherlock, we don’t--” John said as he listened to Sherlock’s comments, each one filthier than the one before. “We can’t--” he giggled as Sherlock described the innovative ideas. “One of us has to be strong!” John said and pulled away from Sherlock, his jeans bulging in obvious interest.

Sherlock followed, stopping behind John in the doorway. He kissed the back of John’s neck, the spot where his hair met his collar, wrapping his arms around John’s waist and pressing against him. But when he looked over John’s shoulder, he realized why John wasn’t responding. They stared at the mountains of detritus that had collected over three years since he moved into Sherlock’s bed.

“We’re not getting to the paint store today, are we?” Sherlock asked, looking into the abyss.

“No,” John whispered, seeing the interior through new eyes. “Oh. My. God.”

Sherlock patted him on the shoulder, not saying a word about the clutter. “Since I won’t be out in public, perhaps I will go change.” 

The first thing they did was turn on music and open the windows. The warm April morning breezes blew some of the dust around, but it was worth it as a trade-off for the fresh air. And while the music didn’t make the work easier, at least it was more pleasant.

John attacked the bookcase, boxing up his trashy detective novels that he loved ( _Spare me, John. Those people have no insight. No powers of deduction. I’ve already solved the mystery by the end of the first chapter_.) and discarding old text books he couldn’t use ( _I need those lesson books, Sherlock. I may have to re-teach myself to play trumpet or flute one day!_ ).

Sherlock stormed the mountain of paper that sat dusty and yellowing under the window. Ungraded middle school chorus tests. Ungraded essays. Ungraded research projects on music groups from prior to 1960.

“John. Watson.” Sherlock stood up, shaking a stack of papers at him. “These are school papers. You were supposed to grade these, to base your students’ grades on their progress.”

“For Christ’s sake,” John said between dust sneezes. “It was chorus. We sang. We danced. I should've been able to grade them on their performances, not on tests and papers.”

Sherlock couldn’t really argue with that. He threw the papers into the recycle bin next to the text books.

Slowly they emptied the space, generating piles of recycling and large bags of trash ( _Do you really eat this much fast food, John? And why don’t you ever throw away the empty bags_?). John’s work-related boxes were moved down into the family living area, where they’d relocated the piano ( _Yes, I know it’s a Baby Grand, Sherlock. But once we get the babies asleep, you’re not going to want me playing right outside their door, are you?_ ).

John dragged the garbage to the street corner, and when he came back, he found Sherlock sitting against the wall, a box tucked into the valley of his folded legs.

“What’s the matter?” John asked, forehead crinkled in confusion. What could have happened in the few minutes between dragging the garbage to the corner and now that had distressed Sherlock. “What did you find?”

“Old photographs,” Sherlock answered, showing the pictures he’d fanned between his thumb and forefinger.

John stared at the photos. Him smiling with a blonde woman. Mugging for the camera with her. Kissing her.

He slid down the wall and sat next to Sherlock on the carpet. He’d forgotten about the box of pictures from grad school, of him and Mary when they lived together. Before he’d had too much to drink one night and had let the truth slip out. How he’d casually fucked his friend James every week after their choir rehearsal and continued even after he and Mary were engaged. It ended their relationship, in shattered china and shouted oaths.

John took the box from Sherlock’s lap and the photos from his hand and threw it all into the recycle bin. He returned to his husband and offered him a hand up from the floor; John cradled Sherlock’s cheeks in his hands and gently kissed him.

“Baby. That’s history." He looked into Sherlock’s eyes for doubt or sadness.

“I know.” Sherlock rested his forehead against John’s. “I just hate what she did to you.”

“It wasn’t her, honey. She didn’t do anything wrong. It was me.” John kissed Sherlock’s cheek, his jaw. “I didn’t know I was waiting for you. I’d always been waiting for you.” He kissed Sherlock again, brushing over his lips while looking into his eyes.

Sherlock nodded, breaking them apart. “I know now that I held out, held on until you could find me.” He smiled, even though his voice broke from heartache for the Before time.

He dipped his head to nip John’s collarbone, sucking a mark in it to say you’re mine.

“Stop,” John whispered, no heat behind his words. “That hurts.” But he tipped his head back so Sherlock could reach more.

“You don’t mind though, do you?” Sherlock voiced thick and dark before biting again. “If you do mind, find a way to stop me.”

John pulled him back down to the floor, capturing Sherlock’s lips in the process. In their love and need to overwrite the Before, they kissed too hard and sloppy, clacking teeth and scraping lips. Neither noticed or cared. They said prayers of thanks with their bodies, brushing, touching, tasting each other, tearing pieces of clothing off as they got in the way, until they lay sweaty and naked on the dusty rug in the empty office.

“God, I want to fuck you, right here." John straddled Sherlock, sucking one hard nipple, rolling the other between his fingers. He gazed at Sherlock through heavy lids; the blue eyes and the heat of his words sent Sherlock spinning.

“Yes. Right here,” Sherlock growled and flipped them, his knees grinding into the carpet. He hovered, staring down as he stroked John, already thick and hard. Sherlock twisted his fist over the head, slicking John’s cock with pre-come. It wouldn’t be enough, but it would be alright.

He grabbed John’s prick and held it, pushing himself down. Down, John stretching him, killing him and bringing him back to life, one beginning where the other left off.

Sherlock pulled up slowly, even as John whined and grabbed his hips, grappling to keep him in place.

“Shhh, love.” Sherlock brushed a slow kiss over John’s lips and pushed back down, tightening until John called out with pleasure.

Sherlock watched John as they fucked, the emotions playing over his face, but always, always love. First and forever. Sherlock took the lead, set the pace, right until John’s hand left Sherlock’s hip and wrapped around Sherlock’s cock.

John dragged his hand up Sherlock’s shaft once, twisting over the leaking head, and Sherlock’s control shattered. He growled from deep inside and looked down into John’s face, both of their eyes open and watching the other. “Harder,” Sherlock said, voice shredded from need. “Now.”

John’s eyes closed, and he nodded. Both hands on Sherlock’s hips, he thrust ragged and wanting, until his rhythm stuttered.

“Let me watch you come,” John said, pulling Sherlock down into a messy kiss.

In between greedy kisses and sounds more than words, Sherlock responded. The squeeze on John’s cock as Sherlock came was too much for him to hold out. John grabbed Sherlock’s hips and held him in place as he bucked, calling _Sherlockloveiloveyoumybabymylove_. 

John’s body relaxed, sticky and sweaty, with Sherlock collapsed atop him.

“Push off,” John said, trying to catch his breath from exertion. “You’re heavy.”

Sherlock rolled off of him, using John’s t-shirt to wipe himself and then John. He snuggled into the crook of John’s arm, resting his head on John’s shoulder.

Sherlock’s stomach growled between them. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard that in all the time I’ve known you!” John said, his eyes wide with shock. “It’s 5! We worked through lunch.”

“And breakfast,” Sherlock realized. “I am a bit peckish.”

John chuckled at the understatement, and Sherlock joined in, their love and friendship and laughter overwriting the ghosts in the pictures.

“Come on,” John said. ‘Let’s get a pizza at Angelo’s. Then we can go to Home Depot and buy the paint.”

Sherlock, dust in his hair and face streaked with dirt, was famished; he didn’t even fuss about them going out in public dressed like street urchins. “Ok, pizza. But only if I can get mushrooms on half.”

“You do know they’re not hallucinogenic, right?” John said as they got into the Jaguar.

“Actually,” Sherlock said as he backed the car out of the driveway, “Scientists have proven that all mushrooms have some degree of hallucinogenic power.”

“That is so not true.” John smiled at Sherlock. God, he loved this man.

“Prove it.” Sherlock grinned at John. God, how much he loved this man.

Angelo welcomed them as old friends and led them to their preferred corner table. “I don’t know why I bother anymore,” he said chuckling as he handed John and Sherlock menus. “You will order lasagna, he will order nothing, and then he will eat half of yours.”

John nodded wisely. “But we worked hard today and I think he’ll actually eat. Medium pizza, half with mushroom.”

Angelo looked at both of them, rough and tired from cleaning, and raised an eyebrow. “Worked hard, hmmm. Wouldn’t let him up for a shower? I see how it is.” He chortled with his insider knowledge.

“We are no longer newlyweds, Angelo,” Sherlock retorted. “We can control ourselves. Sometimes.” He smiled at John, his grin saying it was very difficult indeed.

John’s cheeks pinked immediately. “It’s not like that. We are getting the nursery ready.”

“Nursery?”

“Yes. We’re having a baby. Well, babies. Three!” John said and reached across the checkered tablecloth for Sherlock’s hand.

“Babies? You?”

“Angelo, I have heard you speak in complete sentences. You have the ability,” Sherlock looked at Angelo’s blank face. “Perhaps not. Short version: surrogate mother. Triplets. Due in August. Now, pizza.” He shooed off Angelo with wiggling fingers.

Angelo took the menus and returned to the kitchen, never quite sure when his two favorite customers were telling him the truth or putting one over on him. But those two? Fathers? He shook his head in shock and confusion.

Sherlock placed his phone on the table. “Before we venture to purchase paint, perhaps we should identify a theme. I believe that will inform our color choices.”

John didn’t know what shocked him more: Sherlock having planned something or Sherlock thinking about nursery themes.

“It would seem that the colors pink and blue are closely associated with gender identification,” Sherlock began.

“Yeah. Pink for girls, blue for boys,” John offered, toying with his silverware, wondering how long exactly it took for one pizza to cook.

“Really. Hmmm. I would have thought pink would be for boys, always getting bloody noses and cuts and blue for girls because of blue skies and blue waters and Mother Earth.”

John’s eyes shot up to Sherlock’s face. He didn’t sound like he was making fun of John, that slightly shocked, breathy voice he used to mock. His face didn’t look like he was making fun, all wide eyed with batting lashes.

“Didn’t you know pink is girls, blue is boys?”

“No. Never,” he said, waving off the information. “If I did, I deleted it. In any event, I do not believe it is wise to introduce our children to social stereotypes. However, studies show that infants can’t see any color until they are 5 months old. They’re limited to black, white and gray.”

“You’re just--”

Sherlock held his phone up to John’s face, the screen displaying ophthalmologic proof.

“I’ll be damned,” John laughed. “But, I don’t know, Sherlock. I think I'd feel like a zebra.”

“We could add in red. It's the first color they'll see," Sherlock acknowledged.

“Great. Zebra with a sunburn. What if we went with a theme rather than just colors?" Instead of looking at Sherlock, John played with the single-shot creamers that were on the table, taking them out of their bowl, stacking them, returning them to their bowl.

Sherlock watched him build and destroy towers with the little containers, recognizing the nervous tic John displayed when he wasn’t sure how to say what he was thinking.

"What if we went with a theme like _Winnie the Pooh_ , or _Velveteen Rabbit_ or even y'know, _Doctor Who_?” John asked, finally looking up.

" _Doctor Who_ for a nursery?” Sherlock’s voice sounded innocent. “Oh, I doubt you'd find anything to outfit it with."

"Oh, there's more than you’d think." John's eyes shone with excitement. "There's specialty fabric; Honey can make the linens or we can buy them pre-made on Etsy. There are plush Daleks. We can put fairy lights on the ceiling to look like stars and..."

Sherlock grinned wide as he teased John. "Something you just thought of?"

John turned red again. "I may have looked up TARDIS wall stickers. And sayings."

Sherlock shook his head while he smiled. "I was thinking something more¬--historic. Quilts made from vintage clothing we find. Mobiles with iconic images from each century. Murals of the Oracle at Delphi, Independence Hall, Big Ben, Versailles."

"That’s not for babies!" John thought that design scheme was absurd.

“And _Doctor Who_ is? With its monsters and…and…Rose Tyler!” Sherlock said, cutting John down.

“You take that back, Sherlock Holmes!” John glowered at him. Sherlock knew Rose Tyler was sacrosanct.

John shut his mouth, trying to regroup. “Well, what about..." John suggested hesitantly.

"Why not just choose..." Sherlock spit out.

"Harry Potter!" they said simultaneously.

“We could choose one house or three different houses. Either paint the walls with murals or buy stickers."

“The books did offer several inspirational quotes," Sherlock conceded.

" _You’ve_ read the books?"

"Please, John. You keep them in your bathroom library. Besides as you consider them high literature, you will surely introduce our children to them. I want to make sure your facts are correct."

This time John smiled and shook his head.

They demolished the pizza and discussed colors. A soft white for the walls. Then a house border would divide the white wall from the house color.

That was the plan as they left Angelo’s with an extra pizza, half mushroom for later. “Take it!” Angelo had said as he thrust the warm box into their hand. “You need your strength for the bambinos!” Run into the store, buy the paint, and finish painting that night. That was the plan.

As they stood in front of the hundreds of paint color cards at Home Depot¬¬dozens of which purported to be white¬-they had no idea what colors they wanted.

"What color is white?" John asked, picking up a paint card. “This has _five shades_ of white none of which look white or are actually called white.”

"What about Polar Bear? Hemlock Bud? Pot of Cream? Bridal Veil? Billowy Clouds?" Sherlock read off names from the cards.

“What about _white_?” John pawed through the slots filled with cool whites. Warm whites. "If I can't find white, how can we find Gryffindor red?" His voice rose, cracking as he finished.

"Look John." Sherlock held out his phone, opened to the Hogwarts wiki. "This says, if we give the clerk the Pantone number, they'll be able to mix it for us.”

"I don’t even know what the fuck a Pantone number is. Fuck this. I need air." John stalked out of the paint section, but it was so deep in the store that he ran out of steam and passion before he hit the front door.

He took several long, slow breaths and returned to the paint section where Sherlock was engrossed in his discussion with a woman in an orange vest.

"We have a problem, John. Marjory says we can't paint the nursery the way we want to."

"Who's Marjory?!" John threw his hands up in confusion, upsetting a bucket of paint stirring sticks. He caught them before they tumbled off the counter, scowling at his own clumsiness.

"Oh, you're right Sherlock," the older, motherly woman agreed. "He does seem a bit overwhelmed by this all. It's fine, dear.” She patted John's hand and turned toward the computer screen.

John knew exactly what this was. When Sherlock wanted something, he could pour on charm that would make anyone bend to his will. Clearly, Marjory had succumbed.

“Marjory says, because the house colors are so different—scarlet, emerald, yellow, blue—they would look dreadful where the walls come together.”

Marjory nodded, wise in the ways of paint and decorating. “Plus, y’all know that the first rule of decorating is that the big pieces are neutral and the accent pieces that are cheap and easily changeable are the ones that are bold.”

“Of course,” John agreed, not knowing at all what to say to that.

“Do you watch _Next Big Thing_ on HGTV? Eames is a design genius,” Marjory glowed with adoration. “He says all the time that you should keep your living areas fresh and fun by changing them out. In your case, your decorations should be in the house colors, but not the walls.”

Sherlock beamed one of his brilliant, totally-real-if-you-don’t-know-him smiles at her. “Got it. Because it’s a nursery, we could have blankets, cushions, decorations in the theme. What color do you suggest for the walls?”

Marjory suggested 'Whisper White,' which John would have called cream, but whatever. “Plus, when it comes time to repaint, this will be a breeze to paint over, unlike emerald or scarlet.”

They left with two gallons of paint, roller pads, roller, and plastic drop cloths to protect the rug.

“Now, y’all bring those beautiful babies by when they’re ready to go out in public!” Marjory called after them as they left.

“I have no idea what she was talking about,” John said, pushing the cart to the register.

“Quite. But she made the color decision, and we didn’t have to.” Sherlock laughed. He placed his hand over John’s on the cart handle and squeezed. “I couldn’t leave it to you. You were having a breakdown over white.”

“Who knew there were so many different words for white? It’s like Eskimos and snow!”

They rewarded themselves with a slice of cold pizza before they began painting. True to Marjory’s word, the paint went on easily and covered well with one coat.

“That’s a nice color,” John stood back and observed their handiwork. “Not Polar Bear white, but not too antique-y either. Maybe we should watch that show.” He didn’t even stifle his yawn. “God it’s only 10, and I’m beat. I’m going to sleep.”

He tucked his roller pad in a large zip baggie, which would keep it from drying out. He didn’t have the energy to scrub it; it could wait til the morning. “Are you coming, baby?”

“In a few minutes,” Sherlock said. “I want to clean up first.”

John sat on the bed to take his shoes off before he took a quick shower. With the streaks of dirt and the splotches of paint, he needed one.

That had been his intention.

He woke up the next morning, having gotten no further than removing his shoes; he’d slept in yesterday’s clothes, paint splotched and pizza stained. And Sherlock’s side of was still tidy. He’d not come to sleep at all.

John found Sherlock on the floor of the nursery, the plastic drop cloth balled up for a pillow. The quart of black paint sat open and thin artist’s brushes lay across the open top.

Where the walls had been bare when John left the night before, they now were adorned with quotes. He stared at them, each one perfect for their parenting philosophy that they’d never discussed.

_Music! A magic beyond all we do here._

John could imagine rocking chairs against the wall under this saying, singing as he held one or maybe two babies as they slept.

_It matters not what someone is born, but what they grow to be._

Two cribs, end to end, would fit on the long wall. He knew the children wouldn’t be able to read, but the words would be a constant reminder to him and Sherlock how to raise them.

_Words are the most inexhaustible form of magic we have._

John could imagine shelves lined with books on this wall. At first, big chunky books their babies could teethe on and flip through, but later, Harry Potter. Hunger Games. The Otherworld.

_We are only as strong as we are united._

The third crib would stand here, under this saying. To remind them that they were one. John wanted them to love each other as he loved their daddy, fully and completely. Not fractious like Sherlock and Mycroft and not distant like he was with his own sister.

“I can hear you thinking,” Sherlock said, surprising John as he wrapped his arms around John’s waist.

“It’s perfect. You’re perfect.” John turned around to hug Sherlock properly and laid his head on Sherlock’s shoulder. “How did you know what to write?”

“I thought of you. Your poetic soul. Your inner strength. Your indefatigable belief that people are good. Everything that made me fall in love with you and everything I want our children to be.”

John fisted Sherlock’s t-shirt and pulled him into a kiss. “Bed. Now,” John growled and took his hands off Sherlock only long enough to push him toward their room.


	14. Say My Name

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Mycroft offers Sherlock and John a secluded cabana on the beach to help celebrate their 2nd wedding anniversary, is he actually being kind or does he have something up his sleeve? And what will the name the 3 babies?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A HUGE huge thank you to both [GeronimoAndBeMAGnificent](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Geronimoandbemagnificent) and  
> 221Btls for valuable insight and much love.
> 
> There's a ridiculous amount of sex in this chapter. And I ain't even sorry.

Sherlock sat in his favorite grading-papers chair, diligently pretending to read the essays sprawled on his lap. The jangle of his phone pierced the quiet in the living room. Sherlock rolled his eyes at the phone number of the incoming call. With an irritated growl, he pressed ‘accept’.

"How is the father-to-be?" Mycroft greeted Sherlock, his voice difficult to hear over the noise around him.

A restaurant? No, too noisy. A bar? Sherlock heard a raucous cheer in the background. Oh God, a sports bar. He was out with Lestrade, watching some Thursday Night game of the century. Sherlock rolled his eyes again.

"John and I are busy. What do you want?" Goal one: get Mycroft off the phone. The stacks of papers in his lap, on the arm of his chair, and on the side table had been in his briefcase since the summer semester began a month ago.

"Goodness, you must be quite busy! Well, as your wedding anniversary is this Tuesday, June 28th --”

“Yes, Mycroft, I can read a calendar.” Sherlock huffed a theatrical sigh into the phone, but his mind raced. John had made him swear not to delete the date. Swear. On his life. And he’d forgotten it. Dammit. If their anniversary were this close, would John already have something planned?

Sherlock could almost hear Mycroft’s smug smile in his words, having concluded that Sherlock had indeed forgotten the date. “Gregory and I have a charming cottage reserved in Palm Beach next week, but unfortunately, I have had a situation arise that prevents us from being able to take advantage.”

“Point, Mycroft.”

“Since it’s paid for, it would be a shame to allow it to go to waste. We thought perhaps you and John might enjoy it.”

“What’s the catch?” Sherlock's natural suspicion broke through.

“No catch, dear brother. Speak with your husband and let me know.” Mycroft ended the call before Sherlock could respond with an ugly comment about Mycroft in a bathing suit.

Sherlock stared at the phone, trying to understand Mycroft’s unexpected largess. He heard the snick of their bedroom door opening and looked up.

"Our second wedding anniversary is this weekend. Did you know that?" Sherlock asked John abruptly.

"Yes. I did. Frankly I'm surprised that you did,” John said, pushing his t-shirt into the waist of his pajama bottoms.

"It's important to us, so I remembered." He shot John his most aggrieved, _how dare you doubt me_ expression.

"You never remember. Who called?" John asked suspiciously, linking the call and Sherlock’s uncharacteristic offer.

"I thought we could go away. To the beach. To celebrate."

"Who called?"

"Can I not simply do something nice because I love you?" Sherlock pouted and looked wronged.

John leaned over to hug Sherlock. "I'm sorry to be so suspicious."

As Sherlock's arms wrapped around him, John slid his hand to the table for Sherlock's phone and checked the call history.

"An anniversary trip to the beach sounds like heaven. Mycroft and Greg couldn't go?" John asked with a smile.

"No, Mycroft had something--!" He released John and grabbed the phone from his hand. "You cheat!"

John laughed and sat on Sherlock's lap, directly atop the students' work. He took Sherlock's face in his two hands and looked into his eyes.

"I love you _so much_. But I know you would never plan a vacation. It falls outside The Work!"

"It's a good thing I like you, John Watson."

"Enough to put your grading down and come to bed?"

Sherlock considered this thoughtfully. "I don't know, John. These essays are scintillating."

"I don't believe that for a moment." John kissed Sherlock, sliding forward just enough that the swell in his pajama bottoms pushed against Sherlock's stomach.

Sherlock kissed John off center, capturing his bottom lip. "I’m afraid I can’t get out of the chair. There seems to be something quite heavy on my lap." He reached between them and palmed John, already stiff and wanting.

John arched into Sherlock’s touch, feeling the electricity pooling under his hand. “Come to bed. Please,” John begged.

Sherlock wasn’t willing to release John so quickly; John rarely came to him so tattered, so openly needy. Sherlock would take him apart and then with gentle love, put him back together again.

He kept his left hand in John’s lap, light caresses designed to provoke but not provide. John rolled his hips, but Sherlock whispered, “Shhhh. Slow, my love. We have all night.”

With his right hand, Sherlock took John’s chin and kissed him, light at first, like the touches to John’s cock. But John took control of the kiss, opening his lips, inviting Sherlock’s tongue inside, biting his lips.

Sherlock’s cock pushed against the fabric of his trousers; each roll of John’s hips pulled the trousers tighter against Sherlock’s ache.

Delicious, overwhelming. He had set out to worship John, to please him, but that was forgotten in the kisses, scrapes, touches, pulls and pushes between the two. Sherlock pushed them forward to the edge of the arm chair and released his hold on John so he could disentangle himself. “Uh…” His mind chanted, _touch John. Touch John._

“You ok?” John asked, holding a hand out to help Sherlock stand. Sherlock couldn’t take his eyes off John’s pajama bottoms; John’s cock, which had worked its way out of the open fly, jutted from his body. Unselfconsciously, John stroked himself with his left hand while Sherlock held his right.

“No,” Sherlock growled as he stood up. “That’s for me to do, not you.”

“Love you.” John said, feeling more for Sherlock than he thought he’d ever felt. More love, more heat, more desire, more need.

Sherlock had meant to tease John in the chair, and then lead him to the bedroom. He’d meant to take John apart until he begged again and again.

But those two words, at that moment, spoken with that rough voice wanting him, wanting Sherlock. He couldn’t. He had no choice.

Sherlock slid down to his knees in the living room and took the crown of John’s cock into his mouth. He flicked and swirled his tongue over the head, wetting his lips before he slid down to his own hand at the base. No finesse, no teasing. Just heat and desire.  
Sherlock ignored his own erection, straining and throbbing in his trousers, as he focused on overwhelming John, pulling him to the edge. John slammed his hips against Sherlock’s jaw, pushing deep into Sherlock’s mouth until he came.

Sherlock pulled off before John became overly sensitive, but he rested his forehead against John’s thigh. “I love you, too.”

“Show me how much,” John answered, when he could speak again. He helped Sherlock stand and led him to the bedroom.

 

\---

 

The reservations that Mycroft had offered nonchalantly were stunning and quite generous. The Breakers Hotel sat directly on the white sand in Palm Beach, allowing guests exclusivity from local interlopers. A concierge led them to their private, beach-front bungalow. The man, dark and wrinkled from the constant sun, explained that the other cabanas were hideaways for the heat of the day while swimming, and emptied at dusk; theirs was the only one outfitted for residence. Come sundown, they would have total privacy. He smiled at them as if they were newlyweds, and left his contact information on the table before he left them alone.

The bungalows were bigger on the inside, a sitting room giving way to a bedroom. A king-sized bed. A tub large enough for two to soak. French doors that opened to a secluded courtyard, perfect for lying in the sun. Their focus was the bed.

They spent their days cocooned in the chill of the cabana, under thousand thread sheets exploring the familiar landscapes of each other's body. "Avoiding the sun," John had murmured into the expanse of creamy white skin of Sherlock's back. "Avoiding harmful ultraviolet A and B rays," Sherlock agreed, kissing the already sun-tinged shells of John’s ears, the tip of his nose, the protruding joint of John's shoulder.

Their first night at the hotel was their wedding anniversary. At some point in the late afternoon as they slept, several bottles of Dom Pérignon and a cheese tray had appeared on a side table in the living area. They brought their champagne and snacks for a beach picnic on the flat sheet they stole from the bed.

Alone on the beach and with no moonlight to expose them, they violated the first four beach rules. Twice.

No alcoholic beverages on the beach.

John pointed the neck of the champagne bottle to the sign with a giggled “oops.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. Rule two: swimwear is required at all times.

He rose, his smirk daring John to follow, and with a flourish of rope tie and fabric, Sherlock stood bare. Without waiting to see what John would choose, Sherlock dashed to the surf and dove in. When he bobbed back to the surface, John was next to him.

“Quite different than our pool,” Sherlock asked, entwining his legs with John’s.

“Yes. Last week we didn’t have champagne. Where is the champagne?” John asked, confused by his empty hand.

“You finished it all,” Sherlock said, and kissed John to distract him from the missing alcohol. “Shall we break rule 3? The one about restraining one’s self from public displays of affection.”

John champagne-giggled, until Sherlock’s hand slowly dragged against John’s cock. “Rule? What rule?”

“The one that says I can’t do this.” Sherlock kissed him deeply, wrapping his legs around John’s. He pulled them closer together and wrapped his fist around their cocks, hot to the touch in the warm Atlantic water.

“Wouldn’t want to you break the law,” John moaned against Sherlock’s mouth as his fist found its pace.

The clouds shifted for a moment, allowing a sliver of moonlight to reach the white sand. John watched Sherlock, eyes closed and head thrown backward, given over to this. Focused on this. Not divided between work and his dissertation and the children. Overwhelmed, John gave himself to his feelings and shuddered an _oh God_ into the salt and sweat of Sherlock’s neck. His orgasm rose, intense and fierce, and he came over Sherlock’s fist. John buried his face in Sherlock’s neck, wrapping his fingers in the wet curls and whispered words of devotion as Sherlock stuttered and stilled.

They remained entwined until each could breathe again and then made their way to the sheet stretched on the sand. They collapsed on their backs, holding hands and searching for stars breaking through the dark, cloudy sky.

“Rule 4: No nude sunbathing,” Sherlock recited with a satisfied sigh.

“Not sure if we’re technically breaking that one,” John said, rolling onto his side and resting his head on Sherlock’s shoulder. “Happy Anniversary, my love. With the babies and everything, I lost track of the date and I didn’t do anything.”

“Oh, but you did!” Sherlock wagged his eyebrows, leering at John. “You really did.”

“You know what I mean,” John laughed. “I just wanted to tell you how much I love you. That you changed my life, and that I’m glad I get to spend the rest of my life with you.” He smiled at Sherlock and kissed him, their lips still salty from the water.

Sherlock sighed disdainfully. “Well, that’s not much of a gift, you know, compared to this.” He stretched his hand out, pointing to the bungalow, the beach, the water, even the moonlight that now rippled on the ocean.

“You didn’t do this,” John laughed as he hugged Sherlock. “Mycroft did this.”

Sherlock shivered at the mention of his brother’s name. “Mentioning his name was virtually unforgiveable. However, I am willing to give you a chance to make it up to me.”

“One chance?”

“Well, one tonight. You’re not as young as you used to be, John.” Sherlock sniffed in derision before his laughter broke though.

They gathered their damp, sandy towels and their dry swim trunks. The outdoor shower washed most of the sand and salt from them; the indoor shower did the rest. By the time they returned to their bed, they were clean and drowsy.

“Shall we do this all again tomorrow?” Sherlock asked, as he drifted off to sleep.

“Absolutely. I can’t wait to try Rule 8,” John mumbled, too dreamy to elaborate.

Their four days passed in warm, lazy waves and cool, soft sheets. By Saturday morning, they were ready to be home. Instead of waiting until noon to check out, John and Sherlock left early. They drove along the coast, ogling the multi-million dollar mansions, spinning fictions about the people who lived there.

Eventually, Sherlock turned the car north, taking their time returning home. They talked about everything and nothing, veering occasionally into the two forbidden topics of work and children.

“Eventually, we’ll have to call the babies something, Sherlock,” John said. “A, B, and C is going to get old.”

Sherlock reached out for John’s hand. “I have been thinking, but providing a name seems even more daunting than providing them life.”

John nodded, his shoulders heavy and tight. “Should we name them after family? After us?”

Sherlock laughed. “Sherlock? Hamish? I can’t saddle a child with names such as those.”

“Do you have any favorite authors? Celebrities? Characters? Bible Verses?”

“Characters? Shall we name them Harry, Ronald and Hermione?” The scorn dripped from his voice.

“Ok, characters might not have been a great suggestion.” John smiled and squeezed Sherlock’s hand.

“Perhaps,” Sherlock said, trying to find the best words for his thoughts, “We should look for word meanings that might help inform who are children become. For example, names that mean strength. Courage. Kindness.”

“Brilliant,” John said, his voice warm with love.

“Note this date in history: July 2, John Watson acknowledged the truth.” Sherlock’s voice teased, but the smile reached his eyes.

John searched online for names based on characteristics, and by the time they reached Jesup County, they knew their children’s names.

For the last few miles of the drive, John had kept his hand on Sherlock's thigh, sometimes resting it, a heavy steady pressure. Sometimes lightly stroking his fingers over it, moving closer to the inner thigh with each drag. Sometimes abandoning his thigh and stroking the growing bulge behind Sherlock's zipper.

Sherlock's phone pinged an incoming message; when John picked it up, Sherlock growled, "Leave it. It will be Mycroft wanting thanks." He pushed into John's touch, much more interested in John’s fingers than Mycroft’s ego.

"I think the least we can do is thank him for these past few days." John dialed Sherlock's phone and waited for Mycroft to answer. His right hand held the phone. His left hand was still quite busy.

"It's John. Thank you for the gorgeous mini vacation. We left a little early to see Honey and the babies. Yeah. Almost home...about an hour."

Mycroft punched the end button. "ALERT!" Mycroft called out. We have 45 minutes. That's all. This is a full red alert."

When John returned the phone to Sherlock's inside jacket pocket he made sure he raked his nails over Sherlock's chest. When Sherlock gasped at the scrape, John explained with significant detail what else he would do when they had privacy.

As the Jag pulled into the empty driveway, John said, "Honey’s car’s not here. Looks like we have that privacy right now.” He stroked his knuckles over Sherlock's clean-shaven face before lifting Sherlock’s fingers to his mouth. John slowly sucked one in, swirling his tongue around it before pulling off with a soft pop.

“Let’s leave the bags in the car,” John suggested as they walked to the front of the house.

“A very excellent idea.” Before John could unlock the front door, Sherlock leaned into John’s neck and nipped and kissed behind John's ear, the spot that made his knees weak. John grabbed Sherlock’s ass and pulled them closer. The push of Sherlock’s erection against John’s caused both men to moan obscenely.

"You hate public displays, and if we don’t stop, I’m going to come right here. Let's get inside." John pulled back and fumbled in his pocket for his keys. Before he could retrieve them, Sherlock reached out and pulled John back to him.

"I want you. God, I want you every way possible." He crushed his lips against John, dragging his palm down John's chest. "Yes. Inside. Now."

John pulled away to unlock the door. Sherlock caught his lips once more as John's hand hit the handle.

"SURPRISE," Honey cheered with a chorus behind her.

{As the story of the door opening on the two men kissing was told and retold throughout the afternoon, their hug became more lewd. Less clothed. Like sex on the doorstep.}

"Surprise?" Sherlock repeated dumbly, his mouth open and barely remembering to remove his hand from John’s bulging crotch. He finally realized and pulled his hand back like it was on fire, and grabbed John’s hand off of his ass.

"Oh, look Sherlock," John said, confusion affecting his observations. "There are a lot of people in our living room.”

Mycroft appeared at Sherlock's elbow and guided them into the foyer. "It's a baby shower. Now behave," he said through gritted teeth with a smile plastered on his face.

"OH MY FUCKING..."

"Sherlock Holmes! Your language! That is no way for a daddy to speak!" Mummy emerged from the crowd, happier than he'd seen her in years.

She hugged her son and John and said, "Surprise!"

"Uh…" John said, face red. He looked over Mummy's shoulder at the living room of people.

Honey waddled toward them, her belly heavy with the three babies, now only six weeks away from delivery. "Quiet down you three!"

When Mummy frowned, Honey added, "Not you three. These three!" Rubbing her belly. "Yes, it's almost time to eat!" she told her belly.

"They must have doubled in size in the few days we were gone!" John said, astonished at how big her belly had grown.

"What?!" Honey stood up to her full 5’0, and pushed her belly forward.

John stuttered out an explanation, but Sherlock answered on his behalf. "From the size of you, it looks like it's always time to eat."

John smacked Sherlock for making it worse, not better.

"Uncle Johhhhhhn! Uncle Sherlock!!" A high pitched voice squealed as it crashed into them in a blur and a hug.

Siobhan hugged both men at the same time, squeezing hard before she let go. "Grandmother and I flew over! I was in charge," Siobhan whispered. "She couldn't get used to Uncle Mycroft's influence at the airport. If you know what I mean." Siobhan winked at them, because she’d already experienced Mycroft’s name’s magical ability.

"These men in suits kept taking us places and saying that Mycroft told them to. Mycroft! How could he know--"

"Mummy, as the grandmother of honor, you have a special seat." Mycroft steered his mother smoothly away from that conversation. "Siobhan, please explain the party to your uncles."

Sherlock grabbed Mycroft’s arm as he moved away. “The reservations never were for you and Gregory, were they? They were a ruse to get us away from home.”

Mycroft smiled and walked away, escorting Mummy to her seat of honor next to Honey.

“You better start opening gifts,” Siobhan said as she guided them to two new rocking chairs in the center of the living room. “There’s a ton of ‘em!”

Before sitting, John and Sherlock greeted their friends who’d come. In addition to Mummy and Honey, Molly Hooper had come. She sat on the couch next to Mycroft, who looked incredibly uncomfortable at a baby shower. Their neighbor Becca. Lestrade was there, his head in the small wedge of the open door to the nursery. His daughter Anabelle and her best friend Maggie slunk out of the nursery, looking guilty. Or giggly. One of the two. A few colleagues from JAMMS.

“We’re on display,” John said through gritted teeth, as they sat in the rocking chairs draped with pink and blue crepe streamers.

“Who cares?!” Sherlock bounced in his chair, testing the thick cushion. “Did you see the volume of gifts?”

Cases of disposable diapers had been piled into a six-foot pyramid next to a slightly smaller pyramid of cases of baby wipes.

“We thought we’d use cloth diapers because they’re better for the environment,” John explained, as he looked at the cartons of diapers.

Every woman in the room laughed.

Even Honey.

“We all think that at first,” Honey said, trying to hold her laughter so she wouldn’t sound too condescending. “And warm face cloths instead of baby wipes. But. This is just easier. And sometimes, easier is good.”

John stared at the pile, and for the first time did the math. Three infants. How many dirty diapers a day? How many loads of laundry? Suddenly, disposable sounded just fine.

A double infant baby-carriage next to a single infant baby carriage, oversized pink and blue bows on each.

“They’re car seats! And a stroller!” Sherlock told John, obviously having not researched any of this online at all.

“We decided on a double and single,” Molly Hooper explained. “This way, if you only have to take one baby someplace, you don’t have to wrestle a triple stroller!”

John and Sherlock were silent, overwhelmed by generosity of their friends.

They opened wrapped boxes and gift bags filled with teeny clothes, tiny socks. Bibs. John looked confused now at several packages of cloth diapers.

“You use them as burp cloths for your shoulder,” Mummy explained. “When the baby spits up.”

“That means when it pukes on you,” Siobhan translated, wise to the ways of babies.

Sherlock turned a little green.

The women laughed again.

When every gift had been opened, passed around, ooh’d and ahh’d and sighed over, Honey suggested they cut the cake.

**_Pink and Blue! 3 Babies for You! Congratulations!_ **

While Mummy handed out plates of cake and the guests milled and chatted, Sherlock noticed Honey’s tiny nod toward Anabelle and Maggie.

“Sherlock,” Anabelle said, taking his hand in hers, while Maggie grabbed John’s. “We want to show you our gift.”

“You didn’t have to—“ John began.

“Shhh,” Belle laughed as she dragged them to the nursery. “Wait til you see it!”

They stepped in to the nursery, Maggie and Belle stood off to the side so Sherlock and John could take it in. Mycroft, Greg, and Honey stood behind them.

When they’d left for the beach, the room had been empty, just 4 walls and the quotes Sherlock had painted.

Today it was Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. The bedding. The cribs. There hadn’t even been cribs when they left! The mobiles. Even the decoration. Sweet Jesus, there were hand painted murals on the walls.

“Don’t touch the castle yet,” Maggie said, pointing to the painting at the right of the doorway. “We just finished the Astronomy tower.”

They couldn’t even.

John and Sherlock turned around slowly taking each detail of the murals in.

“Maggie and Belle masterminded all of this,” Greg explained with pride, his arm wrapped around his daughter’s shoulder. “We just did what they said.”

“How did you know? This is…perfect,” John stumbled over his words, in awe of how they captured so much of what he’d planned.

Maggie smirked. “You left your laptop home, Dr. Watson. By the way, you need a way better password. And I won’t tell anyone else about your Pinterest board.”

Mycroft sniggered.

In addition to the mural of the castle that filled much of the short wall, they’d painted the four House crests. They’d also added small touches to the light switches and wooden valance over the window.

“You both are amazing,” John said, hugging each girl. Sherlock dropped a kiss on top of Belle’s hair and whispered a thank you.

The three cribs were custom made to look like castles. Each of the corner posts were rounded turrets, like the Astronomy tower in the mural. The cherry-wood spindles rose from the base of the crib to the top rail, replicating the vaulted ceilings at Hogwarts.

“How—Where—the cribs are—AMAZING.” John tried to speak.

“He won’t say it, but I will. Mycroft had them made for the children. When the kids are old enough, they’ll convert into full-size beds.” Greg’s eyes shone at Mycroft, who blushed furiously at the unexpected praise. Greg kissed Mycroft and whispered, “I told you they’d love it.”

John extended his hand to shake Mycroft’s, but immediately decided a handshake wasn’t enough, and pulled him into a bear hug.

“They’ll do,” Sherlock grudgingly agreed. Mycroft heard it as for the thank you that it was.

As John moved closer to the crib to look at the craftsmanship, he realized each crib had full bedding: a quilt, sheet, and padded bumpers to protect tiny feet and hands from getting stuck.

“Mycroft?” John asked as he touched the quilt with white owls and willow trees.

“No,” Mycroft responded. “That was Honey.”

“How did you do all of this without me figuring it out?” Sherlock sounded almost irritated at having been tricked.

“When you both go to work, or when I tell you I have to go out, I’d go to my house and sew.” Honey clapped with delight at their happiness.

The crib for their daughter had snowy owls and whomping willows. The mobile that spun over her crib were butterflies from antique skeleton keys.

The other two cribs were end to end on the long wall. The bedding for one was a multicolored quilt, the colors matching those in the four House crests. Honey had crafted a stuffed badger, a snake, a griffin, and an eagle for the mobile.

The last crib’s blanket looked like the back of a Quidditch uniform, the number 16 to match the year they were born, 2016. The mobile twirled winged, Golden Snitches and wooden brooms.

Neither John nor Sherlock had realized that the entire party had moved into the nursery.

Siobhan hesitated, then handed a final gift bag to John. It felt heavy in his hands. “This is from me,” she said, her mouth a nervous half-smile.

John kissed her cheek and reached into the tall bag and pulled out a long box. His crinkled forehead told Siobhan he had no idea. When John opened the box, a wizard wand sat in silky blue fabric.

“That one is Harry’s,” Siobhan explained solemnly. “Eleven inches long, holly. Phoenix feather for its core.”

The next box was Ron’s wand. Then Hermione’s. The fourth box held Draco Malfoy’s wand. “Not his hawthorn wand though. This is the Elder Wand. Thestral tail-hair core.”

The reverence in her voice, the care she’d taken to choose the wands. These were her gift to the babies. That she already loved them enough to find the perfect gift.

“I know the best way to display them,” Sherlock said as he hugged Siobhan. “We shall display them on the wall, so your cousins can see them all the time.”

“I can’t wait to meet them,” she whispered into this chest.

“Me, either,” Sherlock said and hugged her a little tighter.

“Speaking of that,” Molly asked. “Do these little wizards have names? Or will you wait until they’re born.”

John looked at Sherlock, who nodded his go-ahead. “Our daughter is Beatrix Violet.”

Mummy, whose proper name was Violet, gasped. Sherlock smiled and blew her a kiss.

“We wanted to honor Honey. We feel that if we call her Bea, it will go well with Honey. Like a honey bee,” John explained, feeling ridiculous by the time he finished.

“I love it, John. It’s perfect!” Honey agreed with a squeal.

“The boys were more difficult. First, we want them to be two separate people, not one slurred-together unit. So we chose names that weren’t similar. One boy will be named William Patrick.” John said, and held his hand out for Sherlock to explain the second boy’s name.

With quiet pride, Sherlock added, “The other will be named Edward Mycroft.”

Mycroft stared with raised eyebrows.

“I’m sorry, what?” Greg said, laughing at Mycroft.

“Oh, please,” Sherlock grumbled. “Please don’t make me say it again.”

“Will and Teddy!” Siobhan squealed. “Perfect. In 6 more weeks, we’ll know who’s who!”


	15. One Little, Two Little, Three Little Babies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Beware of babies bearing pain in the night...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you SO VERY MUCH for your patience and understanding. I think you'll be pleased.
> 
> Thank you to Geronimoandbemagnificient and 221Btls for your genius in helping this chapter be what it is. oxo

Honey sat in bed, pillows behind her head and the small of her back to ease the ache that lingered all day. She’d perched the computer on her lap, waiting for the Skype call to connect. Breakfast time for her family--she should be able to say hi to all of them before they went their separate ways for activities.

Kiera’s sleepy face appeared on the screen. “Mama!” With a smile, she kissed the monitor. “Morning, Mama!”

“Honey!” Matthew gently drew Kiera away from the screen and wiped away the smudgy lip prints. “It’s--“ He subtracted 5 hours from his 8am. “3 in the morning, baby. Why are you awake?”

She heard Sean arguing with Liam in the background about breakfast. “Stop throwing the Cheerios on the floor! Liam, I said stop!”

Her throat thick with loneliness, Honey held back her tears. She even missed the sound of her children bickering. She cleared her throat and said, “The babies think it’s gymnastics hour.” Honey tilted the computer screen down so Matt could see her stomach’s changing shape. Angular lumps were likely elbows or feet stretching to find more room where none existed.

“I’m glad you called though,” Matt said, picking up the laptop and moving into another room. He closed the door behind him.

Honey watched Matt’s anxious movements, scrubbing his face, flicking his bangs out of his eyes. “What is it, Matt? What’s happened?” she asked, her voice rising in fear. She sat up straighter in bed and tried to keep calm, bringing her voice back down. “Whatever it is, we can get through it.”

“I know you were looking forward to moving here, but--can we come home?” Matt’s voice broke. The ache in her heart every day they were apart, the Matthew-sized hole hurt so much every day. “I miss you. God, I miss you more than I ever thought I could. I miss our stupid house, with the faucet I never fixed and the lumpy mattress, and—and I just want to come home.” He covered his mouth with his hand to hide his trembling lips, but the tears ran over his fingers.

Honey placed her fingers against the monitor, trying to make physical contact but reaching only glass. “Come home, baby. Just come home.”

Matthew nodded, unable to speak. He found his voice just enough to say, “My job is still mine in Orlando. I’d never leave us without--”

“It’s good, baby. It’s all good. Come home--” Honey choked on her last word, her tears flowing. She tried to joke them away. “I guess I should have taken my make-up off,” she said and held her mascara-streaked palm up to the camera.

“Daddy, daddy, daddy!” The door flew open and Kiera burst in. “Sean just called Liam a bad word.”

Sighing, Matt smiled at Honey. “In a few weeks, this will all be yours.” He rolled his eyes and cocked his head toward the doorway.

“Dad! He called Liam the S-word!” Kiera pulled at Matt’s sleeve. “Go yell at him.”

“Love you,” Matt said, wiping the remaining tears from his eyes. He blew her a kiss before he put the computer down, forgetting to end the call.

“What exactly did he call Liam?” Matt asked as Kiera dragged him through the doorway.

“Sean called him--“ Honey heard Kiera’s voice drop to a hoarse whisper “stupid!”

Honey laughed even as her heart broke. She missed those ridiculous children so much. Closing the computer and laying it on the bed next to her, she turned out the light. Sleep didn’t come easily most nights; maybe tonight it would be kind.

Honey slid down the pillows, trying to find a comfortable position. I just want to sleep on my stomach, she whined for the hundredth time this week. She’d barely closed her eyes, when a sharp pain took her breath, leaving her panting and seeing stars. “Jesus Christ,” she said to the darkness, “That kick must have been right to a kidney.” She rubbed her lower back, the massage not helping the dull pain.

“Beatrice Violet. That had better not be you,” Honey said aloud. “We girls have to stick together.”

She settled back onto the mattress waiting for the dull ache to pass. "Better. That's better," she tried to convince herself. Honey reached for her clock radio and found the local public station. Overnights they played a feed from BBC radio, and when she couldn't sleep, she'd listen. It made her feel closer to Matthew.

The second kick pierced like a knife stab. She cried out in pain then gasped, "Oh for fuck’s sake,” the realization slowly dawning on her. “That’s no kick, is it kids?”

The general bleh she'd tried to ignore all day. The ache that had throbbed in her back. How, after four kids, did I not recognize labor? Honey tried not to panic, but oh God, they still had 4 weeks til she was due.

“Alright, y’all. Let’s start watching the clock.”

By 3:45, she couldn’t deny the fact any longer: every 5 minutes and moving even closer together, the pain burst from her back and radiated around her belly to the front. This was the real deal.  
_A plan_ , she thought. _I need a plan_. Matt had always taken care of this part, handling details like calling the doctor while she endured the pain.

First, find the go-bag. Shit, she hadn’t packed a go bag because she wasn’t due til August 23rd and this was July. She still had four weeks to pack a fucking bag.

This contraction shredded her. She squeaked out a tiny “oh”, and breathed the way she learned in Lamaze class. Well, not _this_ pregnancy. They’d only gone to one of the classes, specializing in birthing multiples.

As the pain passed, she tested the lingering effects. One saving grace was that the pain came, and it left. In between, she was mostly fine. In these next 5 minutes, she needed to change and pack a bag. And watch the clock.

A shower. Definitely a quick wash. While the water warmed up, she pulled out her backpack and dumped the PTA notebooks, store flyers, all of the other garbage that had accumulated. Certain she’d be back home in a few hours with a condescending smile from a nurse about new moms who fret too much, Honey packed haphazardly. Underwear, a shirt. A pair of shorts. Her phone charger.

When the water reached the perfect temperature, she stepped in and leaned her forehead against the steamed glass wall. Another contraction cleaved her, took her breath away. Honey grabbed under her full belly and huffed her Lamaze breaths.

“Fuck this goddamn shower,” Honey snarled as she shut the water off, her hair still soapy in places. She threw it up into a pony tail, grabbed her toothbrush and bag and knew she wasn’t coming back here tonight.

She hesitated as she approached John and Sherlock's door, hearing their voices from within the room. They'd bought her the television and the Bose speakers for her room after she’d moved in, and it helped her ignore their very vocal, interminable fuck sessions. Now that the babies preferred to twirl and tumble overnight, stealing her sleep, she heard John and Sherlock over the noise in her room. 'Bless their hearts,' she thought night after night as their words filtered through. "They'd better do it all now because once the babies come..."

She dropped her backpack by their bedroom door, hoping the noise would alert them. It didn't make a sound as it dropped. Not that they would have heard it anyway.

"Fuuuuuck. Yes. YES. Sherlock, don't you dare fucking stop..."

Oh, he was damn well gonna fucking stop, Honey thought as another contraction drove through. This one was different, more front than back. And according to the clock, closer to the last one.

When the pain crested, she recovered her breath and pounded on their door.

"John. Sherlock. Stop what you're doing and open the door." Curt. No nonsense. Definitely her mother voice.

She checked the time on her phone: 4:10 am. She texted Matt all in caps, OTW TO HOSP. THIS IS IT.

Honey raised her fist to beat the door open.

Sherlock grabbed her fist before she could hit the door. "I thought we had agreed that you would avoid our room in the evenings," Sherlock snarked, his hips turned into the room. The door hid most of his nudity.

"That ass, though," she thought for a moment, until a contraction thrashed her. Honey clutched the door frame for support and growled out “ _ **It's time**_.” She leaned forward, huffing air out as she breathed through the pain.

Fully clothed, John pushed Sherlock out of the way. “What. What is it?” John asked, bent over and trying to see her face.

Her left hand wrapped under her belly, Honey used her right hand to push him away.

“We need to go to the hospital now. I'm in labor.”

“Perhaps they're simply Braxton Hicks," Sherlock said, his voice patronizing. He wanted nothing more than to resume his taste test of new lubricants they'd purchased.

The pain having mostly passed, Honey pulled herself upright. "Don't you fucking dare to tell me what labor feels like," she said to Sherlock in short measured words. "Both of you. Forget fucking. You have five minutes to get your goddamn asses into the car or I'm leaving without you. I am not giving birth in an SUV on I-4 because Mr. Priss couldn't find the right tie."

She grabbed John's camera from its place next to the charging station and pushed the extra battery pack into her Go bag.

"What else? Keys and wallet." Honey held on to the bookcase waiting for this contraction to pass. Dammit. They were down to 3 minutes.

"Now!" Honey barked before she slammed the front as she stormed out to wait in the car. John and Sherlock raced to dress and brush their teeth. They’d finished in under three minutes when Honey blew back into the house.

"I said five--ooofff.” The contraction steamrolled over her again, stealing her breath and leaving her face white with pain.

John was at her side, holding her hand and talking her through it.

"We can't let them be born in the car. They're too small,” Honey said, tears of frustration prickling at her eyes. They had to get to the hospital before that happened.

"John, help her to the car and sit next to her," Sherlock said, pushing them out of the door. He was already on hold with the obstetrician's answering service.

He left the message that they were on the way to the hospital and that contractions were progressing.

John timed Honey’s contractions, which remained steady at every 3 to 4 minutes. She gripped his hand each time, squeezing until he thought the bones would shatter.

The stream of texts from Matt were the only thing that made her smile.

_Breathe._

_Don't forget to breathe._

_Hey. I was thinking. What do u say to us having another baby?_

_Just kidding. You're still breathing, right?_

She laughed because she knew with complete certainty that she was going to leave that delivery room with her tubes tied. "I love every one of the 7," she told John after a vicious contraction stopped her speech. "But if I get pregnant again, I’m a kill someone. And that's not hyperbole."

Honey stared at John until he averted his gaze. From the look on her face, he had no doubt she was serious, and he wasn’t even responsible for most of them.

When Sherlock pulled up in front of Winnie Palmer Hospital for Women and Babies, he wasn’t quite sure how to proceed. They hadn’t even taken a tour yet ( _Note to self_ , he thought. _Cancel the hospital tour scheduled for next week.)_. He didn’t have to worry.

The staff moved in quickly, with practiced precision of those faced daily with emergencies. They ushered John and Sherlock out of the car and out of the way. A nurse helped Honey into a wheelchair and invited (ordered) the two men to follow them to the Labor and Delivery Suite. Sherlock stuttered out a question about parking the car, but a valet was already removing the keys from Sherlock’s hand with a _“Thank you, sir._ ” After handing over a parking stub, the valet drove away, leaving Sherlock speechless.

He rushed to the elevator that the nurse impatiently held for him while still timing Honey’s contractions and taking her patient history.

“Do you think this could be false labor?” Sherlock asked again. His stomach roiled and twisted. He hadn’t prepared--he wasn’t ready for this. He still had manuals to read explaining how to diaper. How to burp. How do you even know if your baby is hungry? Huh? What kind of father would he be? He couldn’t do anything important. Panic rose up in his throat, choking him until he couldn’t breathe.

John wrapped his arm through Sherlock’s to bring him back from his panic spiral. He read it in Sherlock’s trembling hands, his shallow breaths. “It’s going to be okay. We’re safe.” He laced his fingers with Sherlock’s and drew him into a corner of the elevator where he whispered words of support.

Out the elevator. Into a hospital room. Timing contractions. Breathing through them. One nameless nurse helped Honey change into a hospital gown while the nurse who’d escorted them to Labor and Delivery cornered them to answer questions about Honey’s pregnancy.

Sherlock and John agreed on nothing: not what week it was (“36,” Honey called from the bathroom); not how many times Honey had been pregnant (“This is 6,” she said, struggling to climb onto the bed through a contraction. “We…miscarried…before Sean,” she huffed her breaths); not even whether Honey would undergo a tubal ligation (“N-“ Sherlock began, but John cut him off with a curt, “Absolutely.” Honey, who’d finally made it onto the bed to be wheeled out of the room, grabbed the nurse’s arm. “Tie my damn tubes. Tie them.”)

“Gentlemen,” the nurse said, his voice curt as he held up his hand to stop their bickering. “As entertaining as this is,” (the look on his face clearly said, this isn’t the least bit entertaining) “We’ve got to get her into surgery, and we can’t do that without this information.” He tapped the computer screen with his fingernail for emphasis.

“Do you think something’s gone wrong?” John’s face turned white, and he leaned against Sherlock for support.

“It’s just policy. You already had one scheduled, right?” The nurse waited for John’s nod and then waved off his concern as another freaked-out new father. “As soon as they begin, we’ll have you scrubbed up and give you a gown and paper booties, and you can go right in, Mr. Hudson,” he said to John. With a nod at Sherlock, he added, “Your friend can hang out in the guest waiting room until after the babies are born.” The nurse turned back to the computer screen and continued entering information into the pre-formatted intake form.

John snapped his mouth shut and stood ramrod straight. He wasn’t tall, but when he was furious he filled the room. “I’m John Holmes-Watson. This is my husband, Sherlock Holmes-Watson.” The chilling tone of his words and the piercing anger in his stare grabbed the male nurse’s attention. “Those babies are ours; Mrs. Hudson is the surrogate carrier. We both _**will**_ be in the operating room.”

The nurse apologized as he continued to fill out the computer forms. Sherlock grumbled into John’s ear, “Mycroft will hear about this.”

Once in the operating room, Honey slid sideways onto the surgical table. “This isn’t my first time at the rodeo,” she said to the staff. “Let’s--“ A contraction sliced through her, and she squeezed the closest hand. “--do this thing.’ Her voice wavered, ending with less bravado than she began.

Lying on her right side, she curled into a tight C to give the anesthesiologist access to her back for the spinal block. Sure hands pressed between her vertebrae and chatted with her about her children and how she came to be a surrogate carrier. Once Honey jumped into her answer, the anesthesiologist slid the needle in, first with a local anesthetic and then with the actual blocker. Honey squeaked at the pain, pinching the bedsheet, but when a nurse diverted her attention by asking about the children living in London, Honey grabbed the chance to refocus and breathe through the pain. Cool numbness slipped down her hips and legs, and the staff repositioned her onto her back.

A paper sheet now stretched across the table, obscuring her view of anything below her breasts. Honey craned her neck, looking over her shoulder for the small window cut into the door. Sherlock watched, a wan smile greeting Honey’s.

“Can they come in?” she asked a set of eyes over a blue, pleated surgical mask.

A soft hand stroked her arm for comfort. “As soon as your doctor makes her first incision, we’ll bring them in.”

“Hi, Honey. How are you feeling?” Dr. Wilson asked, her voice bright for 5:30 in the morning.

“Fat and numb,” Honey laughed, sounding more tired than amused. “And alone. Can John and Sherlock come in now, please?”

“In onnnnne moment,” Dr. Wilson answered, looking over the divider sheet. “You’ll feel some pressure.”

The new nurse at her side held Honey’s hand and asked, “So, you’re a surrogate carrier,” her voice bright with interest. “That’s so awesome.”

“Yes, it really is,” a deep velvety voice responded from behind Honey. Sherlock leaned over her head and brushed a tender kiss on her forehead. “We are the two luckiest men in the world.”

John squeezed her hand and brought her knuckles to his lips. “Thank you,” he whispered.

“Any photographers in the crowd?” Dr. Wilson asked, dividing her focus between the incisions and the event.

“Crowd?” Honey echoed. "How many people are in here?" Her hand gripped John's tighter.

"There's these people," John said, his finger pointing to the staff around the table. "Then there are people waiting--" he looked to the back of the OR and added, "there are 3—I’m guessing incubators?-- and then two people next to each one."

Honey struggled to sit up, at least enough to see over the divider. "For what? What's the matter? Why are people waiting for my babies? What aren't you all telling me? What's wrong with my babies?"

"Shhh. It's ok sugar everything's fine," the nurse at her side tried to calm her.

John turned between Honey and the nurse on her other side, knowing he'd said something very wrong.

"Honey Hudson," the doctor barked, her voice cutting through all the noise. "If you keep moving, I’m going to wind up cutting something by mistake. Settle down, and I'll explain."

Honey lay flat on the table and held John’s hand near her face. "I'm sorry," she whispered to him.

"Honey, listen to me.” Dr. Wilson stood on her toes to see over the divider to Honeys eyes. "Listen with your eyes, too." Wilson's authoritative voice quieted Honey's panic. "It's standard procedure with triplets to have a pediatrician, a nurse, and an incubator waiting for each one. We have no reason to expect that there are any problems. Now, if everyone’s ready, some babies are waiting to say hello!”

Honey released a deep breath; John squeezed her hand and whispered in her ear. “Can we say hi now?” he asked, his voice reserved, but she knew what he felt. She remembered how excited she’d been when she’d held her babies, each one of them. The abject terror fused with profound love, one as frightening as the other. Both life-changing.

With another breath, Honey nodded and grinned. Not a slim, fearful smile, but one filled with teeth and dimples and crinkled eyes.

“Good. Okay.” Dr. Wilson turned to Sherlock and said, “Dad, if you want to take pictures you are welcome to..."

Once the words had almost left her mouth, Sherlock had his digital camera raised and angled over the dividing sheet.

"That is simply fascinating, Dr. Wilson," Sherlock said, snapping photographs of Honey’s surgery. “Which of her organs have you had to remove from inside her body to reach the babies? I see intestines…Oh my. A body certain has a significant amount of intestines. If I hadn’t seen it myself, I would have thought it an exaggeration.”

“And--” the doctor interrupted Sherlock’s physiology observation ”Welcome to the world, Baby Boy number one at 6:31 am!”

The light from the camera flashed again and again as Dr. Wilson handed the baby over to the first pediatric nurse.

“And welcome, Baby Boy number two at 6:32 am!” Dr. Wilson said as she handed the second baby to a second pediatric nurse.

The robust cry of Baby Boy 1 drowned out his brother’s welcome. The nurse had cleaned him and wrapped him in a white flannel blanket to present to John. Over the wails of the two boys now, Honey heard John’s sobs, saw Sherlock avoid any connection until he was sure that all three babies were fine. Would be fine.

“Hi Teddy, hi baby,” John whispered through his tears. “I’m Papa. I’m your papa.” John pressed a small, careful kiss to Teddy’s head before returning him to the nurse.

“John, could I--” Honey asked, unsure of her role. She’d carried them, held them, loved them, nurtured them, but they weren’t hers anymore. She knew she had no rights to them.

“Oh God, yes!” John said, as if he’d forgotten that Honey were there. The nurse brought Teddy’s face near Honey’s so she could see him.

“Sherlock, he’s got red hair! Like Mycroft!” Honey exclaimed, kissing Teddy’s tiny hand.

“And last but not least, the incomparable Miss Baby Girl,” Dr. Wilson held their girl up, still smeared and wet but already crying louder than her brothers. “Born at 6:34 am. Bless your heart, lovie. You’re a tiny one, but you have two big brothers who’ll take care of you.”

She handed baby Beatrice over to the third pediatric nurse and returned her attention to finishing the surgery.

Sherlock stopped snapping pictures when he heard Wilson say Beatrice was tiny. “Too tiny?” he asked, grabbing the elbow of the pediatric nurse. “Is there a problem?”

“Sherlock, what’s--?” John released Honey’s hand and moved quickly to Sherlock.

“Dad, I'll answer your questions as soon as I can. Give me one minute." The nurse pulled her elbow from Sherlock’s grip and hurried to the pediatrician.

Honey lay alone on the table, unable to touch either man to offer comfort. She turned her head away, the exhaustion and adrenaline translating into silent tears. She'd done this enough times that she knew if there were a true issue, they'd know soon enough, that things that sounded like problems to overwrought parents were nothing to the physicians.

One pediatrician, most of whose face was still covered with the surgical mask, guided John and Sherlock to a corner of the OR. “I’m Dr. Hand. I’m the Hudsons’ pediatrician. I’ve been following Honey’s pregnancy via email.” He shook their hands, hoping that his history with the Hudsons would clear any hurdles that stood in the way of trust. “I’m here tonight for a different patient, but when I saw her name on the boards, I scrubbed up.”

John stood next to Sherlock, huddled into this corner away from the chaos of the remaining surgery, the three newborns and their medical teams. He tried to focus on the pediatrician, but couldn’t pull his attention away from the wailing babies. His wailing babies. Their wailing babies. And he was helpless to do anything to soothe them. John wrapped his arms around Sherlock and drew him in closer, burying his own masked face in the comfort of Sherlock’s neck.

“Do not withhold information from us, Doctor,” Sherlock said, his voice cold and abrupt. “We would prefer to be told the truth than to have you treat us as imbeciles.”

Dr. Hand held up his pointer finger to stop Sherlock. “Don’t. I’m not, and you know it. Your babies are fine. Yes, they’re low birth weight, but it’s because they didn’t have enough room or the last four weeks to put on weight. They’re ‘growers.’ They’ll make it up in no time.”

The pediatrician looked down at the paper in his hand, filled with scrawled numbers. “Baby Boy A weighed 4 pounds, 1 ounce.”

“Teddy,” John breathed, his smile saying it all. “Sherlock, he’s a ginger.” John’s voice radiated pride and love.

“Baby Boy B weighed in at 4 pounds, 3 ounces.”

“William,” Sherlock grinned. “He’s named after me.” Sherlock pulled John closer, failing to find the words that would tell of his leaping heart, the fear intertwined with hope and love.

Looking back down at his notes, Dr. Hand squinted and tried to read his own terrible scrawl. “And Baby Girl weighed in at 3 pounds, 14 ounces. They’ve been taken to the Newborn Intensive Care Unit. We’ll keep them at least 3 days, the typical length of time babies stay in after a C-section.”

“We have so many questions,” Sherlock began, but again the doctor shut him down.

“I know you do, and they’ll all be answered as best we can. But for now I want to let Dr. Wilson finish with Mrs. Hudson. Let’s get you to the NICU.” Dr. Hand stood by the door, ready to lead them to the NICU, but neither John nor Sherlock followed.

“Hi, Daddy,” John said, seeing no one but Sherlock, even though the OR bustled around them. “Our babies are waiting for us. Three of them. They’re beautiful, just like you.” He kissed Sherlock, brushing his lips over the corner of Sherlock’s mouth.

“Of course they are,” Sherlock said, giggles bursting from him, like his body couldn’t contain them any longer. He felt in love and loved, engulfed in euphoria. “And they’ll be brilliant like their Papa. Piano prodigies, all of them.”

John squeaked out a giggle. “Yeah. We’ll probably have to put our careers on hold to become the world’s worst stage dads--”

A polite cough reminded them that Dr. Hand still waited at the door.

“We should go,” Sherlock kissed John, his fingertips lingering on John’s cheeks. “Probably in everyone’s way.”

“Hold our babies.”

“Our babies.” Sherlock gulped for a breath. His nervous, bubbling laughter spilled out once again as they followed the pediatrician out of the operating room.

Honey heard John and Sherlock’s voices fade from the room. She twisted to say something to them but they were too engrossed in themselves as they left. They didn't hear her call them back.

"Lay still," Dr. Wilson fussed. "I'm almost done. And you don’t want to look like Frankenstein, do you?"

Honey smiled because she knew Dr. Wilson expected it, but nothing was funny. Sherlock and John were gone, leaving her alone in this frigid operating room. Everyone was busy, moving, working, monitoring, laughing, being around her, but not with her. She was so alone. Her babies were gone--the babies, she had to correct herself. Her friends were gone. Even her family was gone.

Hormones, she told herself. This is all hormones, and it will pass. She scrubbed away the tears that leaked from her eyes.

She felt a sure hand stroke her hair, the way her mama used to when she was little. “Shhh, you’re okay, baby,” the nurse said, her weathered, suntanned hand soft against Honey’s forehead. “It’s a good thing you did for those men. You did good. Real good.” She crooned soothing words for the last few minutes while the doctor finished the surgery.

“All right, lady,” Dr. Wilson’s eyes smiled at Honey over the mask that covered her mouth and nose. “We’re done. You did great.”

She grabbed a small stack of clean gauze pads and dabbed at Honey’s tears. “We’ll get you into recovery and let you sleep.”

Honey nodded then closed her eyes. It had been a long, exhausting pregnancy, especially without Matthew there to support her. Matthew. He’d be home soon. With her.

She dozed off to the thought of once again sharing her day-to-day life with Matthew, hugging her own children, reinventing their lives together. Being alone didn’t feel as lonely any more.


	16. A Late Start to a New Beginning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After visiting Honey (and apologizing profusely), John and Sherlock hold their babies for the first time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **It seemed to me that they had come almost full circle from the first chapter of You Teach Me, I'll Teach You. So, I named this last chapter the same as the first chapter of that fic.
> 
> **HUGE thanks to [221Btls](http://archiveofourown.org/users/221Btls) and  
> [GABM](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Geronimoandbemagnificent) for being amazing support and for their patience. And for not hesitating to raise and eyebrow and say, WTAF??

Breakfast sausages sizzled on the grill. Deep, dark roast coffee percolated. Even the tang of toast, slightly burned and smoky, smelled delicious to Sherlock, who stood outside the hospital cafeteria’s open doors and read the breakfast menu.

“A waffle bar! John, I love waffles!” Sherlock grabbed John’s sleeve and dragged him away from the urns of specialty coffees, almost scalding John’s hand in the process. “Do you think they have bacon?”

“Who are you, and what did you do with my husband who won’t eat?” John laughed and patted Sherlock’s shoulder. “Actually, you stay. It would be nice to have someone eat what I cook.”

Sherlock smirked at John but decided to kiss him instead of snarking a response. “Come along, John. Since we can’t get into the NICU until 9, we may as well eat.”

John’s stomach rumbled, agreeing with Sherlock. "I'll bet Honey’s starving, too. She's the one who did all the hard..."

Sherlock's hand clamped down on John’s forearm, sloshing John’s coffee onto the floor. "Christ, we forgot about Honey.”

"What? She was finishing surgery and...Oh fuck," John scrubbed at his eyes. "We were so caught up in the babies...God, we’re such…”

"I tended to the issue," a smooth, rich voice came from behind them. "Mummy is with her right now.”

John jumped at the unexpected voice, this time splattering the front of his shirt. “Goddamn hot coffee,” he mumbled, accepting Mycroft’s pristine handkerchief to wipe at it. _How does he always know where we are? How? T_ orn between irritation and relief, John decided he was too tired to be pissed and chose to be thankful.

“Mummy will inform Honey that you two rushed to get her a soda. You had best make it so."

"Mycroft," John said breathing a sigh, "You're a godsend." John resisted the urge to throw his arms around Mycroft in thanks. No amount of explanation of sleeplessness or euphoria would ever explain away a hug.

John settled for patting Mycroft's shoulder awkwardly as Sherlock stared in disbelief. _How had Mycroft even known Honey had been in labor?_

"Sherlock, do you want to get something to eat or just get the soda for Honey?" John left the choice to Sherlock. At the best of times, the brothers’ sparks could start a fire. But this morning, coming down from the adrenaline high and lack of sleep, even John didn’t know if he could tolerate Mycroft.  
“Soda, of course. As you know, we were remiss, leaving Honey all alone.” Sherlock answered before John finished, his eyes speaking as loudly as his impatience.

Greg watched the awkward, unspoken interaction between John and Sherlock; he knew Mycroft would read the subtext and would never admit he’d been hurt by his brother yet again. “Sounds like a smart idea. That woman loves her Diet Coke.” Greg squeezed Mycroft’s hand, their own unspoken interaction. “Congratulations, you two. Daddies. I never would have believed it three years ago!”

“My most sincere felicitations, also.” Mycroft offered his hand to John in congratulations.

John hesitated, then drew Mycroft into a bear hug. “Our most sincere thank you.”

Mycroft stiffened at the contact, but then relaxed into the hug.

Sherlock cleared his throat and rolled his eyes. “If you’re quite done…” He pulled his phone from his suit jacket, still well-pressed despite the night’s events. "Good Lord. It's not yet 8am." Sherlock shook his head in surprise. "We've been informed that morning rounds last until 9 and we will not be allowed into the NICU prior to that. John and I shall relieve Honey of Mummy. Shall we rendezvous outside the NICU at 9?"

\---

Standing outside Honey's recovery room, they heard Mummy lecturing Honey about taking care of herself and letting the men tend to her. "Let them baby you if they want, dear."

"Excellent advice, Mummy," Sherlock agreed as he swept into the room, offering the soda to Honey before kissing his mother’s cheek.

John hugged Honey, careful not to squeeze her too hard. “Hello, love,” John whispered into her hair. She curled into him, into his touch. “We’ll never be able to stop saying thank you…”

Honey laughed, her breath warm through his t-shirt. “You say that now,” she mumbled, sleepiness finally overtaking her. “Wait til they’re all two at the same time and can only say ‘no!’” She yawned around her soda straw.

“Lay back,” Mummy said, taking the cup from her. “Rest while you can.” She fluffed Honey’s pillows and pulled the thin blankets up to Honey’s chin. Mummy pressed a flicker of a kiss to Honey’s forehead before she ushered her boys out of the room.

Sherlock hesitated by Honey’s bedside, waiting for Mummy and John to leave. He combed his fingers through her hair, pressing down strands that stood at irregular angles, careful not to wake her. “I’m sorry we left you.”

“S’ok,” Honey answered, her voice dull with sleep. “You took care of your babies first. You’re a real parent now.” She puffed out a breath, more snore than air, and pulled the blanket up to her nose.

“Yes. I guess I am.” Sherlock brushed her cheek with a kiss and joined Mummy and John.

\----

At the stroke of 9, Mycroft and Greg met them at the doors to the NICU. Mycroft carried three small gift bags from the hospital shop and wouldn’t let anyone peek inside them. Greg smiled fondly at Mycroft, who he knew was a big softy.

John turned to Sherlock, his eyes wide with excitement. "Are you ready to meet our babies?" His voice quavered a moment, spilling the truth of his nerves.

"Oh, I--We didn't realize that you had not yet seen the children," Mycroft apologized, taking Greg’s hand and pulling back. “This is a moment for family. We shall return later, perhaps this evening…”

Sherlock clamped his hand on Mycroft's shoulder. "Enough. You are family to these children. You are their Uncle Mycroft. Edward Mycroft is named in your honor. I fully expect within a week, they will have you wrapped around their fingers, both you and their Uncle Lestrade. So, no more of this nonsense.”

Sherlock gathered Mycroft to him, wrapping him in all the words he’d never said. His arms swallowed his big brother, who pressed his face into Sherlock’s neck.

“I disagree, brother,” Mycroft mumbled to Sherlock’s shoulder. “I don’t think it will take a week at all.”

At that moment, with his family surrounding him, Sherlock’s love overtook him, his body too small, too meager to hold any of it. He turned toward John’s voice, letting his blazing smile speak for him.

“If you two are done with the bro-fest, can I see my kids, please?” John laughed. He felt giddy and silly, like his laughter would bubble up and steal him away.

Sherlock nodded. As he and Mycroft parted, Sherlock swore Mycroft wiped his eyes.

“In the words of Honey,” Sherlock said as he straightened his shirt collar and jacket sleeves. “Let’s do this thing.” He brushed a chaste kiss over John’s whiskery lips and then opened the oversized, wooden doors to the NICU.

A nurse greeted them as they walked into the NICU’s ante-room, ringed with large metal sinks. She explained that every person must scrub up and gown up before going into the NICU. She unwrapped a sterile scrub brush and demonstrated the proper technique, and then watched the five adults, critiquing their efforts.

“Ten out of ten for effort,” she smiled as they finished up. “Remember to use your elbows or hips,” she called out as Mummy’s still-wet hand reached for the door handle to the neo-natal unit.

The nurse snapped on a pair of gloves and opened the door for them. The silence of the room stunned Sherlock, slapped him, affronted him. Not that there wasn’t noise. Beeps of different pitches and speeds accosted his senses. He’d expected joy and laughter and lots of giggling. Instead this room filled with infants struggling for life felt like a room waiting for death. He tried to shake off the sense of despair, not for his children who were well-loved but for these other babies who may not be.

“It feels like a funeral in here.” John shivered at the chill of the room and the truth in his words. “It needs music. Something besides the beeping.”

Sherlock nodded, knowing his violin brought him peace and tranquility. Maybe the babies needed iPods…

The nurse escorted them to a corner near the staff workstation. Someone had arranged the 3 incubators into a half-hexagon, with Teddy and Will flanking Beatrice. They’d also thought to place two glider rockers nearby for the parents.

Their babies slept, unbothered by the overhead lights shining in their faces and the EKG leads stuck to their newborn skin.

Carrying tablet computers strapped to their wrists, two nurses introduced themselves as today’s caregivers for the Holmes-Watson babies. “They’re beautiful,” Nurse Karli chirped. Sherlock liked her immediately; she was a spark of sunshine in the gloomy nursery. “You’re two lucky dads.”

The second nurse, whose name was lost in a thick, southern accent, explained the monitors and the purpose of each. She started with the faint, red glow under the strip of elastic bandage around each baby’s big toe. “That measures the oxygen saturation in the baby’s blood. The closer to 99, the happier we are.”

Baby Boy 1 Holmes-Watson’s ( _“No,”_ thought John. _“Teddy. Edward Mycroft.”_ ) pulse-ox registered 95. Baby Boy 2’s pulse-ox registered 93. “We have a bit of oxygen piped into the incubator,” the nurse said through her drawl. “Just to support his breathing. Baby Girl here, though,” she pointed to Bea, still sleeping peacefully. “Her oxygen was a little lower than we’d like. We’ve put this contraption over her head to help increase the concentration.”

Over Beatrice’s head rested—the best word John could find to describe it was—the top of a clear, plastic cake carrier. “That will help her breathe better?”

“Sometimes with triplets, one gets scrunched into the back, a little less nutrition, a little less space to grow. That’s probably Miss Thing’s deal,” Karli said, her hands thrust into two portholes on the side of the incubator, adjusting Beatrice’s oxygen cover.

“Can…can we hold them?” Sherlock stumbled over his words, struggling to keep his emotions in check. He glanced at John, whose rapid blinking and red-rimmed eyes told Sherlock that neither of them would hold out much longer.

“Well, of course y’all can,” Nurse Breezi said. It took John sneaking a look at her hospital badge to decipher her name. “Now, y’all sit down. Who’s fixin’ to go first?”

Sherlock offered one rocker to Mummy, who declined. “Not the first time, Sherlock. That is for you and John. We’ll have plenty of time after.”

The nurse reached through the open side-panel of the incubator and withdrew Baby Boy 1, careful not to allow the wires to catch or tug. She handed the flannel-wrapped bundle to John, who shook his head. "I've already held Teddy, in the delivery room. Your turn."

Sherlock knew he must look foolish, this wide smile beaming from his face. Barely able to take his eyes from this tiny, wrinkled creature with ginger curls and a Cupid bow lip, Sherlock stole a glance at John as the nurse placed Will in his hands. Their children. They'd made these. He felt it bubble up again, the joy he had no words to explain. What words could capture the magnificence of an ocean, in all of its breadth and all of its life? Or the billions of snowflakes in a blizzard, beautiful and terrifying in the same instant. Or the children he loved, unreservedly, held by a man he loved even more.

John cradled William like a fragile, otherworldly creature, gripping him as if he might suddenly lurch out of John’s arms. He gazed at Sherlock—his beautiful husband held their beautiful child and glowed with joy.

He looked to the 3rd incubator for Beatrice, but it was empty. Someone had tugged a glider over for Mummy, who now held her granddaughter. Violet buried her face in Beatrice’s naked belly, freshly bathed but wrinkled, rubbing her nose in tiny tickles.

Mycroft reached into the gift bags, retrieving stuffed bunnies, bigger than the babies themselves. He tucked one into each incubator. The one for Edward Mycroft may have been a smidge bigger, but he’d never admit it.

John pressed a kiss to the sparse dark hair atop Will’s head. Love radiated through his body, so much that it couldn’t be contained. Tears raced over the hollows of his cheeks and in the gray sleep-circles under his eyes.

John’s tears shattered Sherlock’s last restraint. He buried his face in the teeny crook of Teddy’s neck, his body quivering with sobs.

Teddy, who’d been happily asleep, wailed and squirmed in irritation at being awoken. “I’m sorry, sweetie,” Sherlock said, smiling though his own tears. “Dada didn’t mean to wake you up.”

“How,” John began, smiling broadly through his tears, “How did this-- become my life?” Sherlock shook his head; it was the only answer he had.

“Do you remember my first day at JAMMS?” John asked, laughter bubbling up through his words and tears. “I stood in that classroom, and I’d lost everything. My girlfriend. My friends. My home.” John rose, careful not to jostle Will, and motioned for Greg to take his place. He lowered Will into Greg’s arms; Sherlock stood to exchange places with his brother, settling Edward Mycroft into his uncle’s arms.

John took Sherlock’s hand and kissed the knuckles, still warm from the baby and the blanket. “I stood there and sang, _I don’t do sadness_ , trying to convince myself that this would be different. And out of nowhere and without me knowing, a voice sang with me.”

Sherlock closed his eyes and, despite the beeping of the machines and the antiseptic smell, he was back in that classroom three years ago, drawn inexplicably to that new teacher. He squeezed John’s hand and smiled.

“You asked me to dinner. You asked me to move in. You asked me to marry you.” For John, the NICU had melted away, and he was with Sherlock. Only Sherlock. Only ever Sherlock. Even the snuffling mewls of one of their babies didn’t intrude. “Turns out, you ask pretty good questions.”

“Love me forever?” Sherlock asked, his eyes open and looking into his best friend’s blue-gold eyes.

“I thought you’d never ask.”


	17. Epilogue: Babies, Babies, Please Let Me Hold Them

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This Epilogue takes place one year later, July 23 (2017), as the triplets celebrate their first birthday with all the people they love.
> 
> The title of the fic and the song in this chapter come from The Talking Heads, "Stay Up Late"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WOOT! [221Btls](http://archiveofourown.org/users/221Btls) told me that I started this fic 9 months ago. How funny and fitting. 
> 
> I'll be back to this 'verse, because I love it.

(July 23, one year later)

John wiped birthday icing from his eyelashes. "I see the baseball lessons you're giving Bea are going well. She’s got your aim,” he said, one iced eyebrow raised in case Sherlock missed the sarcasm in his words.

“Nonsense. The book said it’s never too early to teach a child a sport." Sherlock toweled off her hand, removing as much of the icing as he could. “It was not my fault she threw the cupcake instead of the ball.”

“I don’t think they meant this early, Sherlock.”

With his head turned toward John, Sherlock didn't see his daughter drag her fingers through small blobs of icing on her high chair tray and stripe Sherlock's jacket sleeves.

John did. He bit his lips and smiled and nodded at his husband. When Sherlock finally realized, he fussed at Beatrice without any heat behind his words. She was _so_ Daddy's girl. John laughed from behind the napkin that wasn’t doing much to remove the frosting.

“Time for another gift,” Mycroft announced, placing plush owls in front of Bea, Teddy, and Will. With Beatrice working hers across her dirty tray, Mycroft pursed his lips before speaking. “They are fully machine-washable.”

Everyone laughed, harder when Teddy reached for Mycroft’s hand, grabbing only his tailored suit sleeve with his chocolatey fingers.

The people they loved the most filled the room. Mummy and Father, who’d decided they couldn’t be “half a world away when our Grandbabies need us so” and moved to Florida. Mycroft and Greg, who’d become as important in the children’s lives as John and Sherlock themselves. Anabelle and Maggie, both of whom had been lifesavers over the past year, babysitting when father schedules clashed with parenting. The Hudsons, back in their homes for almost a year; Mrs. Hudson, now known only as Grammy Emma, returned to the US with Mummy’s brother, Sherrinford, and had offered him the “other bedroom upstairs.” They were “just friends,” but no one at the party missed the sparkly new diamond on her left hand’s ring finger. And Honey, who always would be interwoven in their five lives.

“I think that’s all the gifts,” Honey said, pushing torn wrapping down into the recycle bin as she looked for anything hidden by ribbon and paper.

“OK, now it’s time for our gift!” Anabelle said, pointing between herself and Maggie. “As you know, I had a photography class last semester in college.” Everyone groaned; she’d shoved her camera in their faces and lives for four months.

“C’mon now, it wasn’t that bad,” Maggie said, her voice thick with sarcasm. “At least you didn’t live with her. Try waking up to that in your face.” (Belle wasn’t sure whether Maggie meant the lens or-- other things, she thought with a fond smile.)

“Shut up all of you! Now, I made a gift for John and Sherlock, not the babies.” Belle stuck her tongue out at Maggie. “My mom always says she has no recollection of my first year because she was either sleeping or exhausted.”

Belle pulled out her iPhone and with a few taps on the screen, she pointed her phone’s camera at the bare, dining-room wall. With sound effects like an old-time newsreel, a movie flickered then played.

Photos of the babies in the hospital, tucked into their incubators. John in tears, taking only the boys home in infant car seats. Sherlock, his eyes red-rimmed, alone in the NICU holding Bea’s hand through the incubator porthole. He couldn’t bear to leave her there alone and refused to leave until she did. Sherlock playing his violin in the NICU, soothing the infants more than the overbearing silence ever could. Sherlock carrying Beatrice to the car the next week, when she was ready to leave.

At the airport to meet the Hudsons. The babies smothered in hugs and kisses from newly-returned cousins. The five of them, babies and fathers alike, sobbing at the 3 month doctor's appointment after vaccination shots.

Learning to roll over. Sherlock in the center of a baby circle, showing them how it was done. Again, Sherlock in the center of a circle of larger babies, showing them how to rock forward then crawl.

The first baby who said Dada ("He meant me, Sherlock," John argued. "He was looking right at me when he said it." Sherlock snorted in response. "Nevertheless. Dada is my name. So, ha.") John on the couch with Beatrice in his arms and Teddy lying across his lap, all three asleep. Trying to teach them baseball—Sherlock handing them whiffle balls, their tiny fingers grasping through the open holes.

John showing Teddy the piano keys, not knowing he was being photographed. Sherlock playing the violin, as Will reached up from his lap, hoping to steal the bow. Sherlock, his violin tucked under his arm, leaving for his weekly volunteer hours where he played for the infants in the NICU. He scheduled his courses around that standing appointment; he refused to miss it.

And always. Pictures filled with love. Everyone hugging and kissing the three babies. Kissing each other. Honey and Matt, when he'd arrived back home from England, holding each other tight to be certain it wasn’t a dream. Mycroft and Greg exchanging a chaste kiss while washing the dishes at their home. John leading Sherlock to their bedroom, his intention heavy in his eyes. They'd even snuck in pictures of Grammy Emma and Mr. Sherrinford holding hands, her engagement ring sparkling in the camera’s flash.  
The video ended with a selfie of Belle kissing Maggie’s cheek just above her giant grin. Belle held a hand-lettered sign: **Happy 1st b’day, Baby Bea, Wills, and Teddy Bear!**

The group applauded; Matt wolf-whistled and said, “It sure would be nice to have a photographer in the family.” He elbowed Sean, whose face flushed bright pink.

“I see Sean’s crush on Belle hasn’t diminished,” Mycroft said, wrapping his arm around Greg, pulling him in to whisper in his ear.

“I don’t know that it’s going to matter,” Greg said and tilted his head surreptitiously toward the kitchen doorway, where Belle stood chatting with Maggie, their fingers twining and untwining, seeing no one else.

Greg, Mycroft, and Mummy released the birthday babies from their high chair-prisons to cuddle in the living room while John and Sherlock cleaned the remnants of the party from the table and floor.

Will fussed in Mycroft’s lap, and Greg mumbled something that John didn’t quite catch. Someone sang, low at first, but once Will giggled and squealed, the voice grew louder.

 

          _Daddies had. 3 little babies._  
_There they are. Fast asleep._  
_They’re just. Little playthings._  
_Why not. Wake them up?_  
_Cute. Cute. Little babies._  
_Little Nosies. Little toes._  
_Now they’re comin’ to me._  
_Crawl across. The kitchen floor._

_Babies, Babies, Please let me hold you._  
_I wanna make you stay up all night._  
_Babies, Babies, you’re just playthings,_  
_We wanna make you stay up all night._

John and Sherlock leaned against the doorway and listened to Mycroft _(“Mycroft?!”)_ serenade the babies while he danced around the living room with Will.

“A year ago, did you ever think you’d see that?” John asked as he pulled Sherlock back into the dining room. Laughter and love bubbled up as John tried to speak quietly.

“I never thought I’d see that,” Sherlock laughed, his eyes still wide with shock. “I’d be okay with never seeing it again.”

“Hush. We’re lucky we have him.”

John slipped his arms around Sherlock and kissed him, tasting chocolate icing and tea and something uniquely Sherlock. He smiled and said, “We’re lucky to have all of them. But mostly, I’m lucky to have you.”

Sherlock blushed, his crooked smile growing to a full-blown grin. “You said that last night.”

“I’ll probably say it tonight, too,” John leered, waggling his eyebrows for added effect. “I love you, you crazy man.”

“You probably say that to all the fathers of triplets you meet,” Sherlock smiled and kissed John with promise.

“No, love. You,” John said, before deepening the kiss. “Only ever you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will be eternally grateful for any and all comments! <3

**Author's Note:**

> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=imWnuirIL8o The title for the work comes from STAY UP LATE from The Talking Heads


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